Happy Families

by Janey Fraser

  ‘There’s just one tiny thing, dear.’

  Bobbie could feel that slither of apprehension growing and growing, as she tried to hold her son back. ‘Yes? NO, JACK!’

  ‘It’s a bit awkward, really.’ Bobbie could just imagine her mother at the other end, twisting her hands nervously. She gave a good impression of being rather mouse-like to strangers. But every now and then, Mum proved she was made of stronger stuff. That’s what Dad used to say, anyway.

  ‘To be frank, dear, I was wondering if you could keep Jack and Daisy under control. Don’t take it the wrong way but I’d like us all to make a good impression on Herbert. You do see what I mean, don’t you? Bobbie? Are you still there? Bobbie?’

  There was a young mum who lived in a shoe –

  Though it felt, at times, just like a zoo.

  There were kids always fighting

  Or kicking and biting.

  Oh what, oh what should she do?

  Chapter 2

  ‘WHAT ON EARTH are you wearing?’ demanded Bobbie, staring in horror at her daughter, who was tottering down the stairs in silver sparkly tights, pale blue ballet leotard and a pair of black high heels pinched from her own wardrobe. ‘We’re going to Aunty Pamela’s! Not an Ann Summers’ party!’

  Daisy flicked back her long straight blonde hair, adjusted the plastic fairy tiara on her head, leaped off the bottom step and gave a coquettish twirl. ‘Who’s Ann Summers?’

  Hastily, Bobbie tried to backtrack. ‘She’s a sort of friend who wears very grown-up clothes. Clothes that aren’t suitable for children.’

  Her daughter pouted, just like her heroine on that loud American television comedy she was addicted to. Daisy, with her new adult front teeth that dwarfed the old babies on either side, couldn’t wait to grow up. How well Bobbie remembered that stage even though she hadn’t been allowed to do half the things her daughter got away with. ‘I’m not a child. I’m eight! And I don’t want to go to Aunty Pamela’s anyway. She smells funny.’

  Why did kids always tell the truth when they shouldn’t? And not tell it, when they should?

  Her sister-in-law did indeed reek: with a heavy expensive perfume that gave Bobbie a dull headache. Nor did it help that Pamela (never Pam!) treated her with a slightly bemused air of condescension, constantly referring, even after all these years, to Rob’s previous girlfriend: a minor actress who still appeared in bit parts on television. Pamela’s teenage daughters had inherited their mother’s aloof, superior manner. Rob, of course, thought they were perfect. Not like his own kids.

  Still, she could at least try to fail gracefully. Just for today.

  ‘Can’t you wear the Topshop tunic we bought specially for the party?’ begged Bobbie. ‘You loved it in the shop.’

  ‘I’ve changed my mind.’ Daisy’s cool blue eyes met hers with the determination of a professional who had been walking over her mother for years. Daisy, like her brother, had a mind of her own. ‘I want to wear this.’

  Why sweat the small stuff, as her friend Sarah always said? There was no point in arguing – not when they had twenty minutes to get there. A smart lunch with Rob’s goody-two-shoes sister, to celebrate her birthday, was the last thing she needed on a lovely crisp day like this! How much nicer it would be to go out for a walk along the canal, and allow the kids to run off some of this energy. Maybe go to the woods where the daffodils were bursting out. Or bung them in front of their Nintendo 3DS for some peace and quiet.

  Instead, she’d have to try and make sure they behaved in company. Maybe it could be a practice run for Dr Know’s visit. Bobbie still found it hard to believe Mum was really serious about this man. Then again, she’d always been a bit star struck. A real sucker for anything with the word ‘celebrity’ in it. Perhaps it was an escape from her fairly humdrum life. ‘If only you all lived a bit nearer,’ Mum often said wistfully.

  One more thing to add to her guilt trolley! Along with Not Good Enough Mother, Nagging Wife and Frantic Freelance Market Researcher, Trying to Stay Sane. Meanwhile, Daisy, flushed with success at having won the clothes battle, did another look-at-me! pirouette in the sitting-room mirror, followed by her trademark dramatic pout. ‘Where’s Dad?’

  She might well ask. Now they’d moved out of London, it took Rob much longer to get home. Last night it had been well past midnight when she’d heard his key in the door. And right now he was heading a Saturday morning ‘team strategy brainstorming session’. When you were an advertising account manager, it was expected. Or so he said.

  ‘But it’s your sister’s party!’ she’d complained when he’d told her about today’s meeting this morning.

  ‘I’ll get there as soon as I can,’ he’d said, dropping a kiss on top of her head before dashing out of the door for the train. She’d sat at the table for a minute, wondering what had happened to the proper kisses he used to give her. The ones before the children had been born. They loved each other – of course they did. And at least they still ‘did it’ every now and then, unlike some of her old friends back in London. But there was no getting away from the fact that the kids had completely changed their relationship. Still, didn’t that happen to everyone?

  ‘Dad’s going to meet us there.’ Bobbie took another look at her daughter’s outfit and shuddered. ‘Let’s get going, shall we?’

  Another twirl! ‘Only if I can give Aunty Pamela her present!’

  Blast. She’d forgotten to wrap it. Bobbie picked up the huge cut-glass vase she’d bought at great expense for Pamela. It was always a challenge to find something for the woman who had everything. The last thing she’d got her (a rather pretty red floral cardigan) had ended up in that second-hand designer shop in town. Bobbie had come across it soon after moving here. The place had some nice stuff; including, or so it would seem, unwanted gifts.

  Grabbing some leftover wrapping paper from her emergency supply under the stairs, she rifled through her bag for the car keys. ‘Ready? Where’s Jack gone now? JACK? JACK?’

  Why did you always have to say everything twice when you were a parent?

  ‘He’s in his room. Dying on the Wii.’ Daisy was eyeing her suspiciously. ‘What’s happened to your hair, Mum?’

  ‘I put a rinse on it,’ began Bobbie, glancing in the mirror. No! It had gone pink. Not chestnut as it had said on the packet in the supermarket. But bright fuchsia pink. Almost as bright as her daughter’s sunglasses. But not nearly as removable.

  Her sister-in-law Pamela and husband Andy lived at the other end of Corrywood: the ‘posh’ part with electric gates and parking space for three cars. Rob and his older sister had always been close, even though they were so different. Her husband was more easy-going; at least he had been when they’d first met.

  Then again, so had she, Bobbie reminded herself as she stood at the door, trying to hang on to Jack’s hand. Kids changed you. It was inevitable, just like sagging boobs and dwindling sex lives. And anyone who claimed otherwise was lying.

  ‘You’re late!’

  So her husband had actually got here before her! Quite some time before, in fact, judging by the empty wine glass in his hand and open shirt without a tie. Sometimes, when Bobbie saw her husband outside the home, she realised with a jolt that he really was extremely good-looking, with those blond golden looks that ran in the family.

  ‘And you’re early,’ she retorted, aware they were squabbling again. They seemed to be doing rather a lot of that recently. Maybe it was the job. Or the move. Or the kids. Or all three.

  ‘Well, I said I’d try, didn’t I? What on earth have you done to your hair?’

  ‘Don’t ask! It didn’t do what it said on the packet.’

  ‘My God, Daisy!’ He was turning to his daughter now. ‘What have you done to your face?’

  ‘Red felt tip,’ said Bobbie quickly, deciding to gloss over the furious who’s-going-to-wrap-aunty-Pamela’s-present? argument in the back seat. ‘They wrote the card with it. Don’t ask.’

  Daisy circled her arms around R
ob’s waist, hugging him. Bobbie could remember doing the same with her father. There was something very special about the relationship between a little girl and her daddy. Even if the latter hadn’t really deserved it, like her own. ‘It’s all over the car, Dad! It wasn’t my fault! Jack wouldn’t believe me when I said red was a primary colour.’

  ‘IT ISN’T.’

  ‘YES IT IS, STUPID.’

  ‘Don’t argue! Not as soon as we’ve got here!’ Rob threw a disappointed look at Bobbie. ‘Couldn’t you have made the kids wear something more suitable? Jack’s got chocolate all over his T-shirt. He looks an absolute mess!’

  Clearly, he thought the same about her. Bobbie glanced at her reflection in her sister-in-law’s French gilt hall mirror. Even if you ignored the pink streaks, it wasn’t a pretty sight. Her mascara was smudged from where she’d burst into tears after Jack had dug the scissors into the car seat. And, oh no, there was red felt tip, which matched Daisy’s, on her new blue shift dress, an outfit which had seemed perfectly presentable in the shop but which seemed downright dull compared with the pale green chiffon affair that was now floating up.

  ‘Ah, you’re here!’ Pamela gave her an air kiss, avoiding (as usual) actual skin contact. You only had to look at her, marvelled Bobbie, to guess she had been a model. How did anyone get those amazing chiselled-out cheekbones? Her own looked like a clown’s. Maybe that last-minute dab with the blusher had been too much.

  ‘Interesting hair, darling. Now, Natasha, do go and get your aunt something to drink.’ She glanced at her silver bracelet wristwatch. ‘There’s just about time before we eat.’

  Pamela was one of those hostesses who wrote down exactly what she had served at which dinner party, so you never had the same meal twice. Bobbie on the other hand, had a repertoire of six dishes; two of which were pizza. Burned and just about edible.

  ‘And, Melanie,’ continued Pamela brightly, ‘why don’t you take Daisy to your bedroom so she can change out of her fancy-dress outfit?’

  Bobbie took a deep breath. ‘Actually, I’m afraid that we don’t have anything else. Daisy insisted on wearing this.’ She gave a small, scared smile. Her sister-in-law might once have been a world-famous name, but she had dedicated the last eighteen years to bringing up her perfect family. Frankly, it made Bobbie feel hugely inadequate. So too did her home, which she had secretly nicknamed Princess Pamela’s Palace. It was a vision of white carpet, artfully distressed walls, chrome fittings and priceless modern paintings. When Bobbie had first come here, she’d assumed the David Hockney in the downstairs loo was a print.

  ‘Daisy insisted?’ Pamela’s immaculately painted mouth tightened. ‘Oh dear, Bobbie. I’ve told you before. You really have to stand your ground as a parent.’

  ‘Mum says I look like a friend of hers,’ chipped in Daisy.

  ‘Really? And who might that be?’

  Daisy beamed. ‘Ann Summers!’

  Oh God.

  Pamela’s deep blue eyes – bearing no sign of lines or, heaven forbid, puffy bags – widened while Natasha and Melanie, both impossibly long-legged and blonde like their mother, began to snigger. Their mother silenced them with a look. Instantly, they stopped.

  Neat! How did she do that? Bobbie felt like asking for the recipe.

  ‘Look smart, Natasha, will you?’ Pamela seemed different today. Tenser than usual. Almost as though she was waiting for something to happen. Knowing Jack and Daisy, that wouldn’t be long. ‘Let’s take our guests into the drawing room for drinks, shall we?’

  Guests? Bobbie stiffened with alarm. This was meant to be a family party. A ‘small’ affair to mark Pamela’s birthday even though she didn’t look a day older than when Bobbie had first met her. Judging from that line-free face, she wasn’t averse to a spot of Botox. Bobby trailed behind her hostess as they walked along the spotless white carpet (whoops – Jack was leaving muddy sock prints!) and past the enormous kitchen where a flurry of caterers were at work, into the massive drawing room with its antique chandelier and original eighteenth-century fireplace, which Pamela had personally sourced from an architectural-salvage specialist.

  Nervously, Bobbie took in the small group of navy-jacketed men and women in cocktail dress perched on the edge of Pamela’s beautiful pale yellow sofas from Harrods. A big party would have been all right! You could, she’d learned from experience, camouflage your kids in a crowd. But not today. Not when her lot were the only children there.

  ‘Little ones!’ squealed one woman in a high-pitched girly voice. She reached her hand out – were those nails real? – to touch Jack as though he was a zoo exhibit. ‘How utterly adorable! How do you do, little man!’

  Her son just stood there, scowling. After scoffing two chocolate Easter eggs, he was now in his sullen post-additive stage. ‘Go on, Jack,’ said Rob encouragingly with a slightly desperate edge to his voice. ‘Shake hands.’

  ‘Shan’t.’ Jack’s hands remained silently stuffed in his jeans pocket. Belatedly, Bobbie wished she’d dried his smart trousers in time.

  ‘Please,’ she whispered urgently, horribly conscious that her mothering reputation was on the line here.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it’s polite,’ hissed Rob and Bobbie at the same time. At last! They finally agreed on something.

  Jack eyed the woman’s red talons suspiciously. ‘She might not have washed hers. You’re always saying we’ve got to do that before we touch stuff.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Bobbie, going puce red. ‘Our son’s rather shy. Sensitive too.’

  There was a loud sound. An unmistakable rip. Followed by the most horrendous smell.

  ‘Jack’s farted again!’ sang out Daisy.

  ‘NO I DIDN’T.’

  ‘YES, YOU DID!’

  Bobbie couldn’t even bring herself to look at anyone’s face or to try and stop the arguing. When her lot yelled in capital letters, it was impossible to be heard.

  ‘IT’S PONGO,’ thundered Jack.

  ‘Who’s Pongo?’ asked Red Talons faintly.

  ‘He’s our pretend dog.’

  ‘When Jack makes a smell, Mum always pretends he’s done it. It’s cos it’s less embarrassing. We’d love a real dog but we’re not allowed one.’

  Red Talons was frowning. ‘But if you don’t have a dog, how can you pretend he’s making a smell?’ She was addressing her question to Bobbie. ‘It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘Parenting doesn’t!’ Bobbie heard herself giving a slightly hysterical laugh. ‘Believe me, you have to be mad to work there. Come on, you two. Let’s give Aunty Pamela’s present to her, shall we?’

  She held out the large box, which looked as though it had undergone an emergency caesarean with criss-cross bandages of Sellotape and ‘Happy Christmas’ written on the wrapping paper. Whoops.

  ‘I want to give it,’ announced Daisy bossily.

  ‘No. Me!’ Jack charged in, his body colliding with his sister’s.

  ‘Do it together,’ pleaded Bobbie. ‘Please.’

  ‘I’M THE YOUNGEST!’

  ‘I’M THE ELDEST!’

  Crash.

  There was a silence as the vase flew out of the box (it looked as if the wrapping hadn’t been very secure) and smashed straight into a rather lovely rosewood desk, shattering into several pieces.

  For a moment, there was a hushed silence of horror.

  ‘My Davenport!’ gasped Pamela. ‘It’s dented!

  Then Daisy began to yell. ‘MY HEAD HURTS!’

  Jack’s yell was even louder. ‘SO DOES MINE!’

  To Bobbie’s horror, he flew at his sister. There was nothing for it but to dive in herself.

  ‘Let go!’ Bobbie begged, prising Jack’s fingers off Daisy’s nose.

  ‘HE’S HURT ME!’

  ‘NO I DIDN’T, TWIT FACE!’

  ‘For a shy, sensitive kid, he’s not slow at defending himself,’ said one of the navy-jacketed men jauntily, as though trying to defuse the situation. Bobbie couldn’t bring hers
elf to look at her husband, who was standing on the edge of the circle, pretending that his children had nothing to do with him. If there was one thing Rob hated, it was being made to feel stupid. Especially in public. Just as well he hadn’t come shopping with them that morning.

  ‘SHE DID IT FIRST!’ Jack was wailing now, to get sympathy.

  ‘NO, I DIDN’T!’ shrieked back Daisy, her small face puce with fury.

  ‘Any serious injuries?’ asked a pleasant, calm voice. ‘No blood or signs of concussion? That’s all right then.’

  For a minute, Bobbie hardly recognised this kindly, not-very-tall, boyish-faced man. Andy – Pamela’s husband – was rarely at family occasions. He had the kind of job that involved being away for weeks at end, in order to earn the fantastic amount of money that must be needed to run a house like this; not to mention that weekend pile in Devon where they’d been asked to stay a few times. He was also more normal than his wife; warmer and without that smart, clipped accent that smacked of expensive schools and pony clubs. One of those men who, despite not having particularly prepossessing looks, was actually rather attractive.

  ‘Would you mind moving over here, everyone?’ Andy was saying now. ‘Thanks. Natasha and Mel will sweep it up. Then we’ll have lunch. Meanwhile, how about another drink?’

  After that, Bobbie knew that lunch would be a disaster. What kind of woman asked a seven- and eight-year-old to an otherwise all-adult birthday celebration? A woman who wanted to show up her sister-in-law, that’s who. Yet Rob adored his older sister. In his eyes, she couldn’t do any wrong. It was utterly maddening!

  ‘Sit still, Jack,’ she muttered fiercely for the umpteenth time as her son jumped up and down from his seat.

  ‘But I want to watch that DVD you brought to shut me up.’

  ‘And don’t eat with your mouth full. I mean, talk with your mouth full.’

  One of her nieces giggled again but was instantly silenced by one of Pamela’s Looks. Wow! She ought to patent that.