Just Don't Make a Scene, Mum!

by Rosie Rushton

  They were all secretly thinking that despite the mothers they had been landed with, they could have done a lot worse. At least theirs, at their very worst, never called them petal.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Feeling the Heat

  By half past eight, Jemma was feeling well satisfied. She’d grabbed hold of Laura’s arm the moment they arrived and dashed to the loo.

  ‘What’s up –are you ill?’ gasped Laura, hoping that Jemma wasn’t going to be a total pain.

  ‘No, I just need your help,’ said Jemma, and she produced her make-up and her mum’s silver slingbacks.

  Laura eyed them in undisguised envy.

  Between them, they had made up her eyes like it showed you in Heaven Sent! (‘Look alluring yet remote’), applied a liberal dousing of So U perfume, which Jemma’s gran had given her for Christmas, and scraped her hair into a diamante clip with the help of half a can of hairspray.

  Jemma’s reward had been instant.

  ‘You look amazing,’ Chelsea had said as Jemma strolled –well, tottered –on to the dancefloor.

  ‘Wow, Jemma, you look so –different!’ Sumitha had gasped when she saw her.

  ‘That top is fantastic!’ said Laura, eyeing Jemma’s velvet vest top admiringly. ‘Where did you get it?’

  ‘At Chic,’ replied Jemma. ‘My gran sent me some money and I told mum I was saving for a cardigan, but got this instead!’

  ‘It’s really cool,’ agreed Sumitha. ‘And I’d die for those shoes.’

  They seemed to approve. All was well in Jemma’s world. The fact that her eyes kept sticking together (perhaps she had used a tad too much mascara) and that she was itching like crazy all over her forehead was a small price to pay for being one of the girls.

  By eight-thirty-five Laura was in seventh heaven. She had been sipping a Diet Coke when she saw him sauntering through the door with another boy. It was Jon. Her hands went all clammy and her heart began doing extraordinary things in the region of her tonsils.

  ‘That’s him!’ she muttered to Chelsea out of the corner of her mouth.

  ‘What’s who?’ said Chelsea.

  ‘Over there –DON’T LOOK NOW! –it’s Jon! The one I told you about. DON’T LOOK! Isn’t he gorgeous?’

  ‘If I can’t look, how can I tell whether he’s gorgeous or not?’ asked Chelsea reasonably.

  ‘Oh my God, he’s coming this way! What shall I do? What shall I say? Oh …’

  Jon ambled past Laura, apparently deep in conversation with his mate.

  ‘Hi,’ she whispered.

  Jon didn’t notice her.

  By eight forty Sumitha was still having difficulty believing her luck. It had worked. She was here. Of course, telling Laura’s mum that her parents were perfectly happy for her to go was a bit naughty, but then what they didn’t know couldn’t hurt them. And they’d never find out. Would they? Well, if they did, she’d have to face the music when it happened. At least she would have had her fun and they couldn’t take that away from her.

  * * *

  ‘Keep moving,’Jon hissed at Rob as they made their way to the snack bar.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just move over there, now!’ said Jon.

  Rob moved –ably assisted by Jon’s kneecap in his back.

  ‘It’s that girl I told you about, the one I collided with this morning,’ he muttered.

  He could see her staring at him with those big green eyes. She had a strange look on her face. It was somehow disconcerting, that look. Jon turned to Rob, but he had disappeared on to the dance floor with a girl from his school.

  ‘Wanna dance?’ he muttered to the girl on his left and grabbed her arm. Anything to avoid Laura. The memory of the morning’s encounter still made him squirm. He must have looked a right idiot bombing down the drive like that, and she hadn’t exactly been backward in telling him what she thought. She was probably dying to point him out to all her mates and tell them what a loser he had been.

  ‘Wanna dance?’ he repeated, turning to look at the owner of the arm he had grabbed.

  Sumitha couldn’t believe her luck. Freedom and a boy to dance with all in one evening.

  By quarter to nine Chelsea was enjoying herself. She thought Rob was quite sexy-looking. He was a year above her at school, but she had seen him playing football a few times and found his thighs quite mesmerising. Perhaps this was it. Perhaps this would be her first proper love affair. She closed her eyes and swayed to the music. Rob trod on her toe.

  By nine o’clock Ginny Gee was mortified. She had decided to defrost the fridge and there, in a soggy heap under a packet of week-old radishes that looked as if it were growing penicillin, she had found Chelsea’s poem.

  ‘Barry’, she said, taking it into the sitting room.’Barry’ she repeated. ‘BARRY!’ she yelled. Her beloved raised his eyes in slow motion from the Times Twocrossword.

  ‘Mmmm,’ he murmured.

  ‘Read this!’ She threw the damp paper at him. He squinted.

  He chuckled. He sipped his coffee and tittered. Then he guffawed. ‘Oh, that’s good, isn’t it? Oh yes very good indeed. One of Chelsea’s masterpieces, is it? Oh yes, I like that!’

  ‘Oh, so you think it’s funny, do you?’ shouted his wife. ‘And I suppose you find my dress sense a source of great mirth and merriment as well?’

  Barry tried to put on a straight face. And failed.

  ‘Well, you must admit, love, you do go a bit over the top at times.You’re not as young as you used to be and …’

  Barry spent the next twenty minutes attempting to remove coffee stains from his jeans.

  Ginny spent the next thirty minutes in front of the wardrobe mirror, wondering whether, after all, she was quite such a fashion icon as she thought she was.

  Barry wondered whether he would ever learn. He adored his bouncy wife but sometimes she was just a bit exhausting. And she did hate growing older. It was hard work sometimes keeping up with her. But he did love her and he never meant to upset her. He thought he had better go and make peace.

  At nine twenty the phone rang in Mrs Turnbull’s house. It was Peter.

  ‘Oh, hi,’ said Ruth tentatively. ‘I’ll just take the call upstairs.’ Melvyn was in the sitting-room mending her table lamp and somehow she didn’t feel able to talk naturally to Peter if he was listening.

  ‘Well, I really wanted a word with Laura,’ said Mr Turnbull when she picked up the bedroom extension.

  ‘She’s out at a club,’ said Ruth, for some reason disappointed that it wasn’t her he wanted to chat to.

  ‘Oh. Well, er – 1 mean, she is OK, isn’t she? Happy, and all that?’ He sounded hesitant.

  Oh no. He’d heard it. Hot FM. She knew it.

  ‘Yes, she’s fine,’ she said. ‘Why?’

  ‘Oh nothing, no reason. I just wondered …’

  ‘You heard it, didn’t you, Peter?’ Ruth decided to get it over and done with. ‘You heard that phone-in thing when Laura pretended to be someone else?’

  ‘Well, a bit of it, yes. Until Daryl was sick all over the gear stick, that is.’

  Mrs Tumbull chuckled despite herself. Peter had never been very good with blood or vomit.

  ‘Listen, Peter, it’s not what you think – I mean, the thing is … oh, look, it’s difficult to talk right now.’ She could hear Melvyn coming upstairs. He did tend to follow her around like a lost puppy.

  ‘Is this new man – sorry, geek,’ he said, laughing, ‘is he with you?’

  ‘Well, yes, but he only popped in to mend my lamp, I mean he isn’t …’

  ‘Look Ruth, I don’t mind. I’m pleased for you. I’ve got Betsy and I’m glad you’ve found someone. All I’m concerned about is Laura.’

  ‘Laura’s fine – just a bit over-dramatic at times,’ she said shortly.

  ‘Great – well, I’ll see her soon then. Ciao.’

  Mrs Turnbull put the phone down.

  ‘So much for thinking he’d be upset about my love life,’ she mutte
red to herself.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The Witching Hour

  By ten o’clock, Laura was in the slough of despondency. She’d watched Jon dancing with Sumitha, with Chelsea, even once with Jemma, but not with her. Every time she managed to catch his eye, he looked away. He hadn’t spoken a single syllable to her, not even when she had accidentally-on-purpose knocked into him when she went to get her pizza. It was because the others looked really good – Sumitha with her pixie face, gorgeous hair and china-doll figure, Chelsea with that great smile and bags of confidence. Even Jemma looked a million dollars tonight. If only she’d been wearing something half decent, she knew he would have noticed her. It was all her mum’s fault. She was never going to get a boyfriend at this rate.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Jemma asked her kindly. ‘You look a bit miserable.’

  So Laura told Jemma about Jon and the bike and the fact that she really thought he was incredibly fit. And Jemma said, ‘He lives next door to us,’ in the sort of voice people use to tell you there are roadworks on the M1.

  ‘Next door? To you?’ Laura stuttered.

  ‘Yes. His mum brought us in a cake the day we moved in, and my mum’s getting her to make some flower arrangements for our hall. Jon goes to Bellborough Court – I see him at the bus stop every day’

  Life, thought Laura, was grossly unfair. She would definitely have to keep up her friendship with Jemma. It could prove extremely useful.

  By ten o’clock Chelsea was starry eyed. She’d got on really well with Rob, dancing and chatting and once – even kissing. Well, a hurried peck really, but she could embroider it a bit for school on Monday. Then he’d actually asked her what her surname was, and where she lived and stuff, and she thought, I’ve cracked it, he’s going to ask me out.

  ‘Gee? I don’t suppose you are anything to do with Ginny Gee from the radio? The one who writes for the Echo?’ he asked.

  Chelsea grunted non-commitally.

  ‘Pardon?’ said Rob.

  ‘Well, actually, she’s my mother,’ said Chelsea.

  ‘Cool,’ said Rob. ‘Wow, fancy having a celeb as a mum. I never knew you were her daughter. She’s a really funny writer. My mum creases at her stuff.

  ‘Oh yeah?’ said Chelsea.

  They danced about a bit more. Chelsea tried desperately to think of something immensely witty to say.

  ‘Can I come round to see you tomorrow?’ Rob asked suddenly.

  ‘Yes, oh yes,’ said Chelsea breathily.

  ‘Great – what time?’

  ‘Any time, any time at all,’ murmured Chelsea.

  Rob held her close. Chelsea was in heaven.

  By ten o’clock, Sumitha was getting worried. Jemma’s mum would be here to pick them up in a bit and Jon was still dancing with her. Really close. It was great. He was really nice and a pretty hot dancer too. But Sumitha couldn’t risk Mrs Farrant seeing her with Jon. Not if there was any chance Dad would get to hear of it. And from the little she had seen of Mrs Farrant, she could quite believe that she would spill the beans.

  ‘Um, er, excuse me,’she said to Jon,’I have to go to the loo,’ and dashed off the floor and through the swing door to the Ladies.

  By quarter past ten Jemma was in agony. The silver slingbacks had made huge blisters on her feet, and she was having some sort of weird allergic reaction to the make-up; her cheeks felt hot and itchy and her eyes kept watering. But she was happy. She’d danced a lot and talked to loads of people. Any minute now, though, her mum would be here – she was always early – and she had to get the make-up off her face and get Chelsea and Laura and Sumitha out on to the pavement. She couldn’t risk being banned from coming again, just because they weren’t ready in time. She headed for the Ladies and a quick switch back to Jemma Farrant, obedient daughter in an anorak.

  Jon had had a good evening. He’d managed to dodge Laura, even though he could feel her eyes boring right through him. She’d probably told everyone about this morning. But he’d had a great time with Sumitha. She was a lot more interesting than most of the girls he tried to chat up. And yet, he hadn’t actually chatted her up. He’d found himself telling her all about his dad and how he wanted him to go to university, and Sumitha had told Jon how her dad wouldn’t let her do the things her friends did. And then she had asked him what he wanted to do and he’d told her. And she hadn’t laughed. She had asked lots of questions and said that she thought he should go for it. And he’d said she should just go and get her hair cut and then her dad wouldn’t be able to do anything. ‘Except wait for it to grow back,’ Sumitha had said. And they’d laughed. It had been a really good night.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Cringe!

  ‘Oh no, it’s my mum!’ Jemma stopped dead in her tracks coming out of the Ladies. Standing in the middle of the dance floor, wearing a flared corduroy skirt, blue tights, Hush Puppies and a worried expression, was Mrs Farrant.

  ‘Chelsea, Laura – hello, darlings, home time!’ she shrilled, shielding her eyes against the flashing lights.

  ‘Where’s Jemma got to?’Jemma froze. She wanted the ground to open and swallow her up. What was Mum thinking of, coming in here, embarrassing her in front of all these people? Everyone knew that it just wasn’t done – parents waited outside. No one else’s mother would have been so thick. Hadn’t she any idea of how to behave in public? She had told her in words of one syllable to wait outside.

  She watched as Chelsea and Laura stooped in midtwirl and fought a losing battle with a fit of mild hysterics. Several other kids were nudging one another and laughing behind their hands. Jemma wanted to die.

  ‘My,’ she heard her say,’what’s all the racket then, girls?’

  ‘R ‘n’ B,’ Chelsea replied, somewhat tersely. ‘ I’ll go and find Jemma for you,’ she added much louder, hoping that everyone who was watching would realise that this woman was nothing to do with her.

  Jemma took a deep breath.’ It’s OK, Chelsea, I’m here.’ She walked over to her mum. ‘Mum, why didn’t you wait outside?’ she hissed. Everyone’s looking at you. Go outside. NOW!’

  ‘Sorry, petal, but … ’

  ‘Don’t call me petal,’ snapped Jemma.

  ‘… but I couldn’t find a parking space big enough so I’m up in The Mounts car park. Come along, now, everyone. Where’s little Sumitha? Oh there she … er, who is that she’s, er, with – oh my goodness!’

  Jemma’s mother was standing, open-mouthed, giving a highly effective imitation of a gobsmacked goldfish.

  ‘Isn’t that Jon Joseph from next door?’ asked Mrs Farrant.

  ‘Yes,’ mumbled Laura, who having suffered all evening watching Sumitha dancing so expertly, was not overjoyed at seeing her saying farewell to Jon in what seemed an unnecessarily friendly manner.

  Mrs Farrant’s unceasing chatter dwindled to a sort of strangled gasp. Little Sumitha Banerji, daughter of that nice Rajiv Banerji from Radiology, the one they’d sat next to at the League of Friends’ Midsummer Ball, was entwined with Jon, Anona’s boy. Very closely. In fact, thought Mrs F, you could hardly see where Jon ended and Sumitha Banerji began.

  ‘Sumitha dear! Over here now please,’ she called.

  ‘Oh Mum – don’t!’ groaned Jemma. Chelsea and Laura had already dived out on to the pavement in horror.

  Sumitha groaned inwardly. She hadn’t realised that Mrs Farrant had arrived. She had thought she would just have time to say goodbye to Jon before she went outside. Seeing the expression on Mrs Farrant’s face, Sumitha felt slightly sick.

  Claire Farrant was very surprised to see Sumitha being so, well, familiar with Jon. She would have thought that the Banerjis would have drawn the line at that sort of thing. After all, she was still only a child. Still, some parents had no control. Jemma was lucky to have a caring mother who had her best interests at heart. She shepherded her charges to the door, wondering why they were hanging their heads and looking for all the world as if they wanted to be a million miles away.
/>
  ‘What HAVE you got on, young lady?’ said Jemma’s mum suddenly, catching sight of her daughter’s attire. In her mortification, Jemma had forgotten to zip up the anorak. It didn’t matter. Who cared? Her life was over anyway.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Moments of Reckoning

  You could cut the air with a knife in Mrs Farrant’s Polo. Jemma was in the front seat, cringing with embarrassment and fighting back tears of frustration. Mrs Farrant was sitting bolt upright, gripping the steering wheel and holding forth about growing up before your time and looking cheap and nasty and sending out all the wrong signals and mixing with the wrong type of people. The others were in the back: Chelsea was trying very hard to keep a straight face and wondering whether she was the one who was supposed to be the wrong type of person; Laura was gazing out of the window, thinking about Jon and hating Sumitha for having monopolised him all evening. He was her friend, not Sumitha’s. (Laura overlooked the fact that knocking someone off their bike and speaking all of half a dozen sentences to them did not really give one full rights of possession.)

  Meanwhile, Sumitha was praying very hard to every god she had ever heard of and several she hadn’t. ‘Please, please, please don’t let Dad find out.’

  ‘Thank you so much for fetching us, Mrs Farrant,’ said Chelsea, hoping to pacify the irate woman with her charming manners.

  Mrs Farrant crunched her gears.

  ‘Yes, it was very kind of you,’ added Laura. ‘It was a great evening, wasn’t it jemma?’

  ‘It was brilliant,’ commented Sumitha. ‘I had a really good time.’Till now, she added silently.

  ‘We noticed,’ muttered Laura.

  Sumitha appeared not to hear.