by Sue Limb
‘Right!’ answered Beast. ‘We’ll be with you in half a second.’
We? I thought. Who’s he trying to kid? Moments later, though, Chloe emerged, back in her own clothes and carrying Mrs Norman’s dressing gown, which she hung on the hall stand. It looked wrong there, but I could understand that she wouldn’t want to take it upstairs with Mrs Norman on the warpath up there.
‘OK, Chloe, babe,’ said Beast. ‘Let’s go.’
I turned in disbelief to Chloe. Earlier that evening she had said Beast was a complete and utter cad, and she never wanted to speak to him again. Only moments ago she’d been screaming at him. But it seemed all he had to do was whisper a few sweet nothings, and she was in his power once again. Even now she was following him to the door.
‘Chloe!’ I gasped. ‘I thought you were going to come back to my place!’
‘Oh, it’s OK, Zoe,’ she said. ‘The guys will give me a lift home. School tomorrow, yeah? Got to get an early night.’ And off they went.
I didn’t have much time to be flabbergasted. Mrs Norman was coming down the stairs, squeezing past Mr Norman, who was shampooing the stair carpet with a resigned expression on his face.
‘That’s got them back to bed,’ she said, staring accusingly at me. ‘I must admit I was surprised, Zoe, when we arrived back, to find the house full of people and the twins running around naked.’
I could have said so much in self-defence. But I suddenly realised it was my chance to get out of babysitting for ever. I need never wrestle and struggle with these nasty little oiks, ever again.
‘You’re absolutely right,’ I said. ‘I’m terribly sorry. It all went pear-shaped. In your position, I wouldn’t feel I could trust me ever again.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t go so far as to …’
‘Yes,’ I said firmly. ‘It was a disaster. I’m sorry. I admit it. I can’t control your children and I feel I should leave it to somebody who can.’ I shot her an accusing glance here, because we both knew that thanks to her maternal incompetence, she couldn’t control them either. In fact, who could?
‘No, no, Zoe, the twins adore you!’ said Mrs Norman. She was on the back foot now. I had taken the initiative good and proper. It was a moment of triumph, pretending to be totally useless. I made a mental note to use it again, when I next needed an escape.
‘No, it’s been a disaster. Excuse me,’ I said, and dived into the sitting room to pick up my jacket. Mrs Norman followed me in.
‘Zoe, please don’t be upset …’
‘I am upset,’ I said. I was becoming upset, actually. Yes! I really was upset. My chin actually trembled. I could feel it go. ‘I’ve made a mess of it here and I don’t think it makes sense for me to babysit for you any more. Sorry.’
I walked to the front door. Mrs Norman raced after me, tugging at my sleeve and pleading.
‘Oh please, Zoe! Don’t say that! I don’t mind you having friends over! Of course not – just as long as you tell us first.’
‘I didn’t know they were going to come over,’ I said with what I hoped was simple saintliness. ‘I didn’t even know Chloe was coming. She just turned up, soaking wet – and the guys were looking for Chloe. It was nothing to do with me. But anyway, thanks a lot! Bye!’
I opened the door and strode out. I had rarely felt so terrific. Mrs Norman stood on the doorstep and actually wailed at my retreating back.
‘Zoe!’ she cried. ‘Wait! Don’t leave us like this!’
I turned by the gate and gave her a sad-but-plucky little wave. I also shrugged in a picturesque way. In the film of my life I would be played by Audrey Tatou. Although she’d have to put a bit of weight on first.
Soon I was comfortably out of sight of the Norman house. Mrs N had given up and, I suspect, was even now taking it out on Clive with a series of vicious kicks.
My mobile rang. It was Tam. Darling Tamsin! In the film of my life she would be played by Kate Winslet.
‘Tam!’ I cried. ‘How are you? Where are you? Are you feeling better?’
‘I’m in my room,’ said Tamsin. ‘I haven’t slept or eaten for two days. I’m seriously in danger of losing it.’
‘Well, at least you’re not at the bottom of the river!’ I joked, trying to jolly her along.
‘I’d never drown myself,’ said Tamsin scornfully. ‘When you drown your body sort of all swells up.’
‘Gross!’ I cried. ‘You wouldn’t want to look fat, would you, even if you were dead.’
There was silence at the other end. I hoped Tamsin wasn’t trying to work out a more stylish way of committing suicide.
‘Can’t you come up and see me?’ asked Tamsin. ‘Come tomorrow. Please, Zoe. I need you. You can sleep on my floor. No, I’ll sleep on the floor, you can have my bed.’
‘But tomorrow’s Monday,’ I said. ‘I’ve got to go to school.’
‘Bunk off,’ suggested Tamsin. ‘I did it all the time. Tell Mum and Dad you’re staying at Chloe’s. Just one night, Zoe. It’s only an hour on the train. You always make me laugh. Come on, Zoe, PLEASE! I’m in total panic.’
‘What’s the problem, Tamsin?’
‘I’ll tell you when you arrive.’
‘Promise me you’re not pregnant!’
‘God, Zoe – what do you think I am, an idiot? Just get your arse over here tomorrow and you can help get me out of this mess.’
‘Are you sure you don’t want to talk to Mum and Dad about it?’
‘If you so much as mention the merest hint of a hint of a hint of this to Mum and Dad, I shall have to kill you. Sadly.’
It seemed I was going to have to go up to uni rather sooner than expected – in secret and possibly, in disguise.
‘OK,’ I said. ‘I’ll do it. But if I’m found out and get suspended from school and grounded at home, you’ll be responsible.’
‘Oh never mind all that!’ said Tamsin. ‘Just come!’
I promised her I would, and rang off. I was nearly home now. I was actually going up my garden path when I realised the Normans hadn’t paid me. I had flounced off without a penny. So how was I going to afford the train fare? My Holiday in Newquay Money was asleep in my post office account. It looked as if a little light burglary might be necessary.
.
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17
SUNDAY 11.31 p.m.
Ghastly interrogation
‘How was babysitting?’ beamed Mum, looking up from an old episode of The X Files.
‘Oh, fine!’ I said airily. ‘The twins peed on my head, though, so I’m off to have a shower.’
‘How disgusting!’ said Mum savagely. ‘Those children are completely feral. That woman’s a disgrace. I hope she paid you extra.’
‘Yeah, fine – see you in a min!’ I called, and ran upstairs. I didn’t want to get into too much detail about the babysitting fiasco. I didn’t feel it had been a total triumph on my part, somehow.
In the shower I made my plans. I would hide some ordinary clothes in my schoolbag. I would set off for school as usual in the morning, but I’d get off the bus three stops early, at the station. I’d go into the ladies’ loos and change out of school uniform. And I’d jump on the next train out of town, like something in a spy thriller.
I wrapped my newly fragrant head in a towel, dived into my dressing gown and, in the privacy of my bedroom, I flipped open my laptop and went online to check train times. There was a train at 9.15 a.m., which meant I could be with Tamsin by 10.30 a.m. There was still the little problem of paying for the ticket, though.
There were two possible sources of cash. One was an old teapot with a broken spout. It sits on the kitchen dresser and random coins are put in it from time to time. It might amount to about £20, but if nobody had ransacked it recently it might amount to anything approaching £50. I went downstairs and peered into the teapot: 30p! Not even enough for a packet of peanuts!
The other source of cash was Mum’s handbag. It sat nearby on a kitchen chair. It was open and the wallet was peepin
g cheekily out as if to say, ‘Rob me, rob me, go on, you know you want to.’
I felt sick at the thought of stealing from Mum. She was only in the next room, watching TV. Dad was upstairs, chained to his PC. Stealthily and guiltily I lifted the wallet out of the bag. I thought I’d just check how much was there. If there were loads and loads of notes, she might not miss one or two. I’d only borrow them, of course. I’d collect my babysitting money in a day or two and pay Mum back before she even noticed anything was missing.
I unfastened the wallet and what did I see? A photo of myself, grinning out at me. And a specimen of my signature. It said ‘Love you totally and hugely, Mum – always, Zoe.’ It had been on my Mother’s Day card to her. She’d photocopied it (so as not to wreck the card) and put it in her wallet. There was a photo of Tamsin in there too, but no tender message. Ha! I’d got one over on the glamorous firstborn for once!
I was so deeply touched by my own message of love to Mum that I couldn’t complete my daring burglary. What a disaster! Then I had an idea. I heard the finishing music from the TV news and I knew Mum would now emerge for her nightly fix: a cup of something called chai, a sort of milky tea with spices.
I put the kettle on. When Mum emerged, she looked bleary-eyed and sad. It was The News. I don’t know why she watches the stuff. It was my job to cheer her up and simultaneously get some money off her. And if I could succeed with Mum, maybe it would turn into a possible career option.
‘Chai, Mum?’ I enquired, giving her a hug. ‘The kettle’s on.’ These words alone can charm the average adult and lower their blood pressure to a comfortable level.
‘Lovely, darling,’ she said, sounding tired.
‘Guess what!’ I said, embarking on an outrageous lie. ‘There’s a school trip to Stratford-on-Avon in a couple of weeks!’
‘Is there?’ Mum sounded pleased. ‘I don’t remember the note about it.’
‘You know me. I always lose notes home,’ I said, keeping my back turned and getting out the mugs so she couldn’t see my face. Sometimes Mum can tell when I’m lying. It’s to do with her career in insurance. Once she followed her instincts and identified a man who had deliberately burned down his own home in order to collect the insurance. She said she knew he was guilty because of his body language. He kept touching his nose, apparently.
I had to be very careful not to touch my nose. It started to itch insanely. A thousand invisible ants were running over it.
‘It’s £35,’ I said quickly. ‘For the trip – the theatre seat and the bus and everything. Do you want extra cinnamon?’ Skilfully I distracted her from details of the trip to her favourite spice.
‘What play are you going to see?’ she asked.
I panicked. My mind went blank. The only play I could think of was Twelfth Night because that was what we saw last time we’d been on a school trip to Stratford. That had been only last term. We couldn’t be going to see it again. I pretended not to be able to find the cinnamon, ransacking whole cupboards even though I could see it right there in front of me, next to the bread bin.
‘Cinnamon, cinnamon, cinnamon …’ I muttered, on my knees now among the saucepans.
‘It’s next to the breadbin, Zoe,’ said Mum with a sigh. ‘What play is it?’
Still harping on the goddam play. My brain literally refused to come up with a single Shakespeare play, even though if I’d been quietly lying on my bed and staring at the ceiling, I could have thought of dozens. Millions, in fact.
‘It’s thingummyjig,’ I said. ‘The one with the … ghost thing.’
‘Hamlet?’ asked Mum.
‘Hamlet, yes!’ I cried.
‘Who’s in it?’ asked Mum, horribly interested. You could tell she was on the point of booking up to see it herself. ‘It’s my favourite Shakespeare play.’ Whoops! I had selected the wrong one. Mum was now simply too intrigued by far. If only I’d said we were going to see The Very Dull History of Duke Boreo of Venice.
‘Who’s in it?’ I repeated in an offhand way, fiddling with the cinnamon. I wondered whether, if I sniffed the cinnamon, it would stimulate my brain. Or maybe I could sniff it and stage a terrible sneezing and coughing fit which would force Mum to think about something different from Shakespeare. However, I didn’t think I could perform well enough to get away with it. Then suddenly I realised I didn’t have to know who was in the play.
‘I don’t know,’ I said, telling the truth. Although it wasn’t totally telling the truth in the sense that we were talking about a production which didn’t actually exist.
‘Tell you what,’ said Mum, looking suddenly energised in a quite revolting way, ‘let’s go and look it up on the RSC’s website.’
And leaving her steaming cup of chai to cool on the table, she headed for the PC. Dad was just winding up and was more than happy to vacate the computer chair. My heart was hammering wildly. Within seconds Mum would discover that there wasn’t a production of Hamlet in the Royal Shakespeare Company’s current schedule. What then?
She logged on to the RSC’s website. I felt sick. What should I do? Admit it was a con to try and get money out of her? Never in a million years! Pretend to be muddled and extremely stupid? Certainly. That was always my only hope.
‘Yes! There it is!’ cried Mum in excitement, navigating the RSC’s website. ‘Hamlet!’ My heart turned a somersault. Could it be that I had not told a lie after all? You mean there actually was a production of Hamlet? Result!
Oh, thank you, thank you, you lovely guardian angel, I prayed silently. What on earth had I done to deserve such divine support?
‘My God!’ exclaimed Mum. ‘How extraordinary! How fascinating! It’s an all-male production – in Russian! I can’t wait to hear all about it, Zoe. In fact, I’ve half a mind to buy a ticket, myself!’
It seemed my prayer of thanks to my guardian angel had been a little premature. It seemed I was in deep, and possibly also hot, water – right up to my neck. How could it be so difficult just to get my hands on a train fare?
.
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18
SUNDAY 11.58 p.m.
Secret plans for a desperate journey …
‘Oh, what a shame,’ said Mum. ‘They’ve sold out. How clever of Mr Fothergill to book early. I must congratulate him when I see him.’
I made silent plans to keep Mum and Mr Fothergill separate for the rest of their lives. It was kind of the opposite of a dating agency.
‘So,’ I said, trying not to sound too scheming or grasping, ‘can I have the £35, please?’
‘Of course you can!’ beamed Mum. She logged off (with regret) from the RSC website. We went downstairs and she handed over the loot. ‘In fact,’ she said, ‘you can have an extra £5 for ice creams and coffees and things.’ You could see she was really proud of me, going to see an all-male production of Hamlet in Russian. I was going to have to lie for England when I told her all about the ‘visit’. And possibly lie for Russia, too.
Still, at least I had the train fare. OK, I had behaved abominably and lied till my face was a tasteful shade of duck-egg blue, but it was all for a good cause. Tomorrow I could bunk off school and go and see Tamsin – and rescue her from whatever dragon it was who had tied her to that rock.
Before I switched off my bedside light, I tried to call Chloe. Her mobile was switched to voicemail. So I whizzed off a text: HAVE TO DISAPPEAR FOR 2 DAYS PLS TELL MY M&D I AM STAYING WITH YOU TOMORO NIGHT IF THEY ASK. I was planning to ring my folks tomorrow afternoon – preferably when my dad would be out walking the neighbour’s dog between two and three precisely – and leave a message saying I was staying overnight at Chloe’s to avoid being interrogated.
In other words, the lying and deception over Hamlet was as nothing to the terrors of truanting. I was so scared I could barely eat breakfast. Luckily Mum didn’t notice, as she was getting ready to shoot off to a big insurance meeting. By car, thank God. How awful it would have been if she’d been travelling by train, and as I lurked furtivel
y on the station platform, Mum had suddenly appeared opposite, with her briefcase and steely glare – and turned that steely glare on me.
A casual sweatshirt, baseball cap and trainers were all that was needed to turn my school uniform into some kind of nerdy travelling outfit. I was hoping to hide my face with the baseball cap. I’d got shades as well. I got changed in the station loo as planned, and stared at myself in dismay in the mirror. I looked like some kind of transsexual, colour-blind golfing junkie with a great-grandparent who had been a chimpanzee.
If only I’d been able to pack a fabulous chic scarlet and black New York actress outfit with high heels and a hat the size of a pizza. But I could only pack stuff that would fit into my school bag. To be honest, I’d have looked more stylish if I’d stayed in school uniform.
Never mind. I walked out on to the platform. Oh no! To my extreme and total horror, Mr Norman was standing opposite! Looking immensely relaxed and happy, as you would if you were looking forward to a blissful day spent miles away from the homicidal twins you had inadvertently fathered. I was wearing my baseball cap and shades, but he still clocked me. I could tell he was trying to decide if he recognised me or not. I turned away and walked with a strange hunchbacked shambling motion towards the timetables on the wall.
I could feel Mr Norman’s eyes boring into my back. Well, into my backpack. I tried hard to radiate the personality of a shambling hunchbacked transsexual golfing junkie. It wasn’t easy.
I heard the sound of teetering high heels totter past behind me. Some kind of sex vision in blonde and black had been sent by my guardian angel to distract Mr N. I could see the whole scene reflected in the glass of the timetable display case. The blonde minced on down the platform, and Mr N (and most of the other men) followed her with their eyes on stalks.
Hoorah! My train was arriving. I made a mental note always to have a blonde stashed away in my luggage. Then if I needed to be particularly incognito, I could let her out, a bit like a cat out of a carrying basket, and she could swank about, fascinating everybody while I furtively got on with the serious business of life.
There was a seat at the far end of the train compartment, kind of tucked away, and I sat down there with my cap pulled well down over my face and read Heat magazine. The guard checked my ticket and nodded grimly. He had a face like those mountains carved to look like various US presidents, only a lot less friendly. I bet he would have smiled if I’d been a blonde in black.