‘I’m not sure that would be a good idea,’ I tell her, shuddering. ‘She’s difficult enough to handle as it is, without getting any big ideas from a bunch of supermodels.’
Logan’s mum laughs gently. ‘And you must join us one of these days. Honestly – one hot yoga session with Orlando and you won’t ever look back!’
I open my mouth with the intention of making a hilarious quip about the fact that yoga is supposed to aid flexibility, and therefore surely my ability to look back would only be improved after a session with hot Orlando, but then I pause. Some of the mothers in the school playground take their exercise regimes incredibly seriously and the last thing I need right now is to piss off the PTA.
‘Maybe one day!’ I trill, trying to look like attending a yoga class isn’t my definition of hell.
I usher Benji towards the garden gate where Nick is waiting. And then a thought hits me and I spin round.
‘Actually,’ I say, ‘it can’t have been Scarlet who you saw, because I dropped her at school myself yesterday.’
But Logan’s mum has closed the door. Benji trips over his own feet and starts to wail.
When we get home, the fairy lights are on outside the front door. I always put them on if Scarlet or Dylan are coming home late but I was in too much of a rush to think about doing it tonight. One of them must have come downstairs and switched them on while we were getting Benji.
We get inside and I’m intending on scooting him upstairs to bed, but as we walk into the living room, I see Scarlet and Dylan draped across the sofa.
‘Hey!’ calls Scarlet. ‘We heard you were coming home. It’s just as well – the house was too quiet without you here.’
‘Get over here, little dude,’ says Dylan, opening his arms.
Benji dashes across the room and flings himself down between them, snuggling his feet onto Scarlet’s lap and his head against Dylan’s shoulder. Nick and I sit down, and we spend the next fifteen minutes watching our teenage children comfort, reassure and finally get a smile out of their little brother.
*
It isn’t until Sunday lunchtime that I finally get to discuss my new plan with the rest of the family. Nick cooks a roast dinner and I wait until everyone’s plate is full before clearing my throat and getting their attention.
‘I have an announcement to make,’ I say, hitting my water glass with my fork.
Nick cringes and puts out his hand to stop me. ‘Don’t do that, Hannah. Those glasses are only cheap. They’ll shatter if you look at them the wrong way.’
‘An announcement!’ Scarlet’s reaction is far more satisfying than my boring health-and-safety-conscious husband, so I turn to her, a big smile on my face. ‘Are you finally going to let me change my name to Scarlett with two ts, which is obviously how it was supposed to be spelt in the first place?’
I squint at her, wondering what she’s wittering on about now.
‘No, and I have no idea why you would think that’s what I’m about to say. Anyway, I’m really excited to be talking to you guys about this. So, the thing is—’
‘We’re going somewhere amazing on holiday, aren’t we!’ squeals Scarlet. ‘Oh my god, Mum! Where is it? Is it America?’
‘Is it Disneyland?’ yells Benji. ‘Logan went there last year and he said it was fantastic. You can go on rides and eat candy floss and meet Mickey Mouse and—’
‘It’s not Disneyland, numbnuts.’ Scarlet waves her hand, dismissing Benji’s suggestion. ‘Can you imagine Dad somewhere like that?’
We all turn to look at Nick, who is staring at us all like we’ve grown three heads.
‘What are you going on about?’ he asks. ‘And can you please eat this roast before it goes cold.’
‘We’re just saying that you wouldn’t be seen dead at Disneyland,’ Dylan informs him, ramming a huge piece of chicken into his mouth. ‘You know. Not with all that expectation that you might actually have a good time.’
Nick frowns. ‘You’re damn right I wouldn’t. What a waste of money! I don’t need some wet-behind-the-ears, spotty juvenile in a mouse costume telling me that it’s time to enjoy myself, thank you very much.’
Scarlet groans. ‘Well, not everyone is a killjoy like you, Dad.’
Nick looks hurt at this accusation.
‘I am not a killjoy. I just can’t stand organised fun.’ He spits out the last two words like they’re putting him off his food. ‘I don’t need permission to have a good time.’
It is for this very reason that the Thompson family will never step over the boundaries of Center Parcs or anything Disney-related or indeed any campsite that has the audacity to offer entertainment of any kind. We did once visit Legoland when Dylan was younger, mostly because Nick was under the innocent illusion that it would just be about Lego bricks. The car journey home was mostly spent listening to him bang on about the ratio of activity to queuing time and the cost of a can of coke. The day only managed to avoid being a complete disaster because Dylan had quite a lot of birthday money to spend and Nick convinced him to buy a box that consisted of boring, grey Lego, which he then spent three solid days turning into a replica of something from Star Wars that Dylan wasn’t allowed to play with.
‘I think we’re going to Morocco,’ says Dylan, having finally swallowed his chicken. ‘That’s on your bucket list, isn’t it?’
‘We’re not going to Morocco,’ I say. ‘And what I actually wanted to—’
‘Not with any of you, anyway,’ adds Nick. ‘We’re going to wait until you’ve all left home and then me and your mum are going to have the holiday of a lifetime.’ His eyes glaze over slightly. ‘We’re going to shop in the souqs of Marrakech and hike in the Atlas Mountains and drink funky cold medina.’
He sings the last three words, wiggling his shoulders in what I can only assume is his interpretation of a hip-hop dance move.
Scarlet’s eyes narrow. ‘You do know that song is talking about date rape, don’t you? Medina was a drug that the guy put in people’s drinks to make them have sex with him because they didn’t like him.’ She holds up her hand and starts counting off on her fingers. ‘It’s all there in the lyrics, Dad. He thinks that girls should be with him just because he has nice clothes and it condones animal testing and it is totally transphobic.’
We both stare at her and I run through the song lyrics in my head. The dog doing the wild thing on his leg. Sheena. The comment about making sure that the girl is pure.
‘Scarlet’s right,’ I tell Nick, feeling shocked. ‘He drugs them. And we’ve been playing it to the kids since they were tiny.’
‘Exactly.’ Scarlet smacks her lips with relish. ‘What kind of parent forces their kids to listen to lyrics like that?’
‘And anyway, the medina that you’re thinking of is a part of some cities in North Africa,’ Dylan informs Nick. ‘The streets are like mazes and it’s really easy to get lost.’
‘Thanks,’ says Nick, nodding. ‘I’ll try to remember that.’
‘That song is ruined for me now,’ I mutter. ‘Forever.’
‘So if we’re not going to Morocco and we’re not going to Disneyland then where are we going?’ asks Benji, waving his hand to get our attention back on the topic.
Which is absolutely not the topic that I actually want to discuss.
‘We’re not going anywhere,’ I say firmly. ‘The announcement that I want to make has nothing to do with any holiday.’
‘Bloody hell, you’re not pregnant, are you?’ asks Dylan and there is silence as four pairs of eyes bore into my stomach.
‘No, I’m not!’ I snap. ‘And Nick, you shouldn’t be looking so panicked, for god’s sake.’
‘So – if you’re not having a baby, which I’m glad about by the way because babies are annoying and Dogger wouldn’t like it, and we’re not going on holiday, then what are we doing?’ asks Scarlet.
‘It’s not what we’re doing, it’s what I’m doing,’ I tell her and everyone puts down their knives and forks and I fina
lly have their unadulterated attention. Because I don’t do anything without any of them. Not ever.
‘I feel like we should have a drum roll.’ Scarlet raises one eyebrow. ‘You’re really building this up, Mum. I’ve got places to be this afternoon.’
I frown. ‘What places? And speaking of which, have you been bunking off school? Because I’ve been told by two different people now that you’ve been spotted out and about in places that you shouldn’t be.’
Scarlet inhales sharply and turns to glower at Dylan. ‘What people? As if I can’t guess.’
Dylan shrugs. ‘Wasn’t me, so you can stop giving me the evil eye,’
I bang my hand on the table. ‘Scarlet! Have you or have you not been hanging out in town when you should be at school? This is incredibly serious, you know. You’re supposed to be getting an education, not wasting these precious years shopping and lazing about in the park.’
‘I’d probably get more of an education in the park than I would at our crappy school,’ she mutters.
She does have a point. Not that I’m prepared to concede it.
‘Scarlet’s not daft enough to skive school,’ states Nick. ‘So it must have been someone else who looks like her. Anyway, about this big announcement, Hannah.’
‘God. Imagine looking like Scarlet.’ Dylan rocks back on his chair and smirks at his sister.
‘At least I’ve got all my own teeth,’ she snarls back.
Dylan laughs. ‘So have I. Is that the best you’ve got? You’re slacking, Scarlet – maybe you should start attending school a bit more.’
Scarlet’s growl of anger is drowned out by Nick’s voice. ‘Your mother is trying to tell us something and I for one am very keen to hear what she has to say. So either be quiet or you can leave the room.’ He turns to face me. ‘Hannah. Please ignore our horribly behaved offspring and tell me about this announcement.’
I clear my throat, making sure that I have the full attention of the room.
‘What I want to talk to you all about is the fact that I have made a big decision,’ I declare, rather grandly. ‘And my decision is that I am going to be getting a new job, which I’m really, really excited about.’
‘Thank god for that,’ murmurs Nick and when I look across the table, he is holding his hands together and looking up at the ceiling, as if he’s praying. With any luck he’ll notice that two of the spotlights are out and finally get around to changing the bulbs.
‘I’m not going back to full-time teaching,’ I say, just to clarify the situation. ‘Probably not, anyway.’
Nick’s face falls. ‘What are you going to be doing then?’ he asks. ‘Do you actually have a new job or is this whole thing still in the let’s-talk-about-it-for-the-next-six-months stage?’
I frown at him. ‘Don’t be like that, Nick. This is a fledgling idea and I don’t need your negativity to squash it before I’ve even begun.’
He gives me a firm look. ‘So it’s not going to be like the time that you watched a television programme about being a paramedic and decided that you could retrain during your maternity leave?’
It’s unfair of him to bring that up. Dylan was a few months old and I was sleep deprived and the fact that I can’t stand the sight of blood seemed like a trivial point. I attended one first-aid training session and had to leave at the coffee break. And right now, when I am flushed with the excitement of a new project, I do not need reminding of my past mistakes. Besides, this is going to be nothing like that.
‘This is going to be nothing like that,’ I inform Nick, haughtily. ‘This is going to be an actual serious venture.’
‘So what are you going to do, Mum?’ asks Dylan. ‘Are there seconds of potatoes?’
Nick passes him the bowl. ‘Help yourself. And yes, what are you going to do, Hannah?’
‘That’s what I want to talk to you all about,’ I say, trying to keep the exasperation out of my voice. ‘I wanted to see if you have any ideas.’
In my head, they all take a moment to consider my talents and attributes before offering helpful and exciting job suggestions.
In reality, they react before the words are barely out of my mouth.
‘You could work at the supermarket,’ says Dylan. ‘You’re always saying that it’s your second home.’
‘One of my friends has started doing Saturday shifts at Nando’s and he gets free chicken,’ Scarlet tells me. ‘You could see if they’ve got any vacancies there.’
‘Mmmm,’ groans Dylan appreciatively, in his best Homer Simpson voice. ‘Free chicken.’
I force a smile. ‘I was rather thinking of a job that would utilise my years of experience. You know, something where my transferable skills will really come into their own.’
‘So we need to identify your transferable skills,’ says Nick, looking thoughtful.
The room goes silent.
‘Oh, come on!’ I break after thirty seconds. ‘I’ve not exactly spent the last twenty years sitting on my backside. I have tons of expertise.’
The faces in front of me are now demonstrating their best thinking poses. Nick’s eyes are looking up and to the left as he tries to retrieve memories of my brilliance. Scarlet is biting her finger and staring at me while Dylan is scratching his head and scrunching up his mouth. Only Benji looks confident and that’s because he is making the most of their distraction to load his plate with more food.
None of which is particularly reassuring or complimentary.
Eventually, after an interminable hush, Dylan speaks.
‘You could always be a party planner?’ It’s more of a question than a statement.
‘What does a party planner do?’ asks Benji, looking up from his plate.
Scarlet rolls her eyes. ‘They clean toilets,’ she tells him.
‘Seriously?’ Benji looks puzzled. ‘So why are they called—’
‘Oh my god! Why are you so retarded?’ groans Scarlet, slapping the palm of her hand against her forehead.
‘Don’t call your brother retarded,’ growls Nick.
‘The clue is in the name,’ Dylan tells Benji. ‘They plan parties, genius.’
‘Don’t call your brother a genius,’ I snap, not really thinking about what I’m saying. ‘And becoming a party planner isn’t really the direction that I’m thinking of going in.’
‘You are good at organising things,’ says Nick. I stare at him suspiciously to see if this is a roundabout way of saying that I’m bossy, but his smile seems genuine enough so I let it go.
Maybe I should consider it, as it’s the first vaguely sensible suggestion that I’ve been given. I let the possibility percolate round my brain, imagining myself floating around a fancy venue, ensuring that the champagne fountain and the table decorations are all in place. I could do that, no problem. But I bet the party planner doesn’t actually ever get to enjoy the festivities. I’ll probably be in the back, sleeves rolled up and doing the washing up or sorting the blocked toilets or dealing with rowdy partygoers who don’t know when they’ve had enough of a good thing. So basically doing what I have to do at home.
‘How illegal is it to punch someone in self-defence?’ asks Scarlet casually, whipping my thoughts away from my doomed party planner career. ‘Is it okay if they start it?’
I put down my cutlery and give my daughter a concerned look. ‘Why do you want to know? Has something happened?’
Scarlet shrugs. ‘Just wondering,’ she mumbles around a mouthful of potato.
And then Benji knocks over the gravy jug and in the ensuing carnage, I push any ridiculous thoughts of party planning or new careers to the recesses of my mind.
Chapter 8
Benji has a football match today and my mother has kindly agreed to go and stand on the freezing cold touchline and cheer him on. This has the added benefit that when I finally stagger into the house, laden with twenty thousand books that need marking by next Monday, she is sitting at the kitchen table and the house has an air of calm that is non-existent whenever Dylan an
d Scarlet are here on their own.
‘Good day, Hannah?’ she asks, grimacing as I dump my bags onto the floor. ‘You should get yourself one of those tartan shopping-trolley things. You’re going to give yourself a hernia, going on like that.’
I give her a look and plonk myself down into the seat opposite her.
‘Have you got one, then?’
Mum shudders. ‘Good god, no! They’re for pensioners. I wouldn’t be seen dead dragging one of those round with me.’
‘Yet you think I should get one.’ I start massaging the back of my neck in a pathetic attempt to ease out some of the knots. ‘How was the football match?’
‘Bloody arctic.’ She looks around, checking that we’re alone. ‘You are aware that Benji is totally abysmal at sport, aren’t you?’
I nod. ‘Yep.’
He takes after me, bless his two uncoordinated left feet. I am still waiting for the right sport to present itself to me. I had a brief moment of hopefulness when Nick bought me flashy new trainers and some spanx-like running shorts for my last birthday, but sadly it seems that having all the gear does not counter the fact that I am not built for aerobic activity.
‘Which raises the question: why was he chosen to participate in the match in the first place? You can’t be telling me that he’s the best that the school has to offer?’
‘Of course he isn’t,’ I tell her, slipping off my shoes and wondering if it’s too early to open the wine. ‘It’s equality, isn’t it?’
Mum looks confused. ‘What is? Letting the rubbish kids play instead of the good ones?’
I wince. ‘Don’t let him hear you say that. And it’s just how it is these days. There’d be an uproar if teachers only ever chose the talented kids to represent the school.’
‘Why?’ Mum seems genuinely interested, so even though I’m tired and I really can’t be bothered to talk about anything even remotely related to education, I try to explain.
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