by Mel Sparke
“Hi!” bleated the girls together.
“Hi!” grinned Matt, doing a mock bow to the pair.
“Hi!” chorused the girls again.
Joe managed half a smile and a nod.
“So, you’re the DJ?” said one of the Hi! Twins, leaning over and smiling a slightly drunken smile at Matt.
“Sure am,” said Matt, smooth as ever.
Well, what else would he be, standing behind this desk and putting records on for the past hour? thought Joe. A rocket scientist?
“Fancy a dance?” continued Hi! Twin Number One, flopping her crossed arms down on to Matt’s metal record box and giving him – deliberately or not – an eagle’s eye view down the front of her strappy, black sequinned dress.
She could give Cat a run for her money, thought Joe, watching Hi! Twin One give it the full-flirt hair toss.
“Can’t,” shrugged Matt good-naturedly.
“Oh, why not?” said Hi! Twin One, sticking her bottom lip out like a petulant six-year-old.
“I’m the DJ. Got to play the records, y’know?”
Both the Hi! Twins burst into tinny giggles.
“What about you?”
Joe jerked in surprise – he hadn’t expected to suddenly be the focus of attention.
“Wha– what?” he stammered.
“If he’s the DJ, what are you?” said Hi! Twin Two, tossing her matching shoulder-length hair. She was pretty, but was wearing a ton of – slightly smudged – make-up, Joe realised, looking at her saccharine-pink lips and powdery layer of foundation. Just as with Cat, he had this almost overwhelming urge to scrape some of it off with a fingernail, just for the thrill of seeing bare skin underneath.
“Me?” Joe shuffled from foot to foot. “Well, I, um, I just help out.”
The girls looked at each other and giggled some more.
“And d’you think you could help me out?” said Hi! Twin Two as her friend nudged her.
“Er, how?”
“Dance with the birthday girl?”
Joe glanced around the marquee, desperately looking for the girl whose eighteenth birthday party this was. When he and Matt had arrived and begun setting up earlier, the meal was still in full flow, with everyone holding up glasses of champagne to toast the very elegant-looking girl who wore a pink rose in her pinned-up hair.
“Where is she?” asked Joe, unable to locate her among the dancers and chatterers around the huge tent, and perplexed as to why the Hi! Twins wanted him to dance with her.
“Oi, dopey!” cackled Hi! Twin Two, her boozy breath washing over him. “‘S me! I’m the birthday girl!”
Joe stared at her in confusion: the real birthday girl had looked effortlessly classy. This girl, along with her friend, was a bit of a mess. Quite attractive, yeah, Joe had to admit, but too wasted from the champagne to take seriously.
And then he saw the wilting pink rose that she’d shoved down her cleavage.
“Your hair…” he muttered.
“Oh, that,” giggled Hi! Twin Two. “Too much like hard work. An’ you know what they say – got to let your hair down!”
A torrent of giggles started up between the Hi! Twins and Joe looked at Matt pleadingly as the girls dragged him bodily on to the dance floor.
Matt just grinned and gave him the thumbs-up sign.
“And then she tried to-to—
“What?” laughed Matt, glancing round at Joe.
“Then…” Joe stared out at the beams of headlight that illuminated the pitch-black country road, his face contorted with disgust. “Then she tried to stick her tongue down my throat!”
Matt couldn’t help sniggering. The one person in the world – or at least, in the marquee – who was least likely to respond to an enthusiastic, drunken snog was Joe. But Naomi – the real name of Hi! Twin Two – had been too tipsy to take that on board.
“Why are you laughing?” asked Joe. “I thought you’d be gutted, seeing as I got all the attention tonight, even though I didn’t want it. That’s more your scene, isn’t it? Girls throwing themselves at you?”
“No worries, Joey,” said Matt as the lights of the village appeared ahead. “I’ve got a nice little surprise for you.”
“What?” asked Joe, worriedly, wondering what was coming next.
The street lamps of the village appeared on either side of the car as Matt drove along the main street towards the square.
“Naomi and Stella—”
“Who?” interrupted Joe.
“Naomi! The one with her tongue down your throat? And her mate? Remember?” Matt prompted, laughing again.
“What about them?”
Joe had an uncomfortable, sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Whatever Matt was going to come out with, he was pretty sure he wasn’t going to like it.
“Well, we’re going out with them next Friday.”
“Are you mad!” squawked Joe, remembering Naomi’s boozy breath and dirty laughter all over again. “It took all my energy to get that girl off me tonight. What the hell would I want to go out with her for?”
‘“Cause I quite fancy her mate Stella, that’s why. And Naomi’s pretty gorgeous too,” said Matt, turning into the quiet square and heading towards the turn-off to Joe’s dad’s house.
“Maybe, when she’s sober…” grumbled Joe.
“Come on, it’ll be a laugh!” Matt jollied him along, knowing that Joe wasn’t going to go along with this arrangement without a barrel-load of encouragement.
“You must be joking! Why would I—”
“Joe!”
“Nah, let me finish, Matt! Why would I—”
“Joe – look!” Matt interrupted again, nodding at the scene in front of them.
Joe followed his gaze towards the flashing blue light of the ambulance that was parked outside his father’s house.
CHAPTER 11
A FEW HOME TRUTHS
Joe stared at the phone and willed it to ring.
He’d been doing that for the last two hours, as the light outside the kitchen window had turned from the darkness of the early hours of morning to the bright light of dawn. At first, Matt had hung around aimlessly, saying nothing helpful, until Joe finally told him to go and leave him alone.
“Miscarriage,” his father had mumbled as he slid into the seat of his car and made to follow the speeding ambulance.
“Nothing,” his father had snapped as Joe asked what he could do, holding on to the open car door.
“No!” he’d barked, slamming the door shut, as Joe offered to come with him to the hospital.
Joe had stood frozen on the pavement, oblivious to Matt hovering by his side. For four years, the only tone Joe’s father had used when he spoke to his son was apologetic. Simpering even. Tonight, there just seemed to be anger.
As the car pulled away, Robert Gladwin had rolled down the window and called in a less brusque voice: “Wait by the phone!” And, like the good son he was somewhere deep inside, Joe found himself waiting. And wondering. His head thumped with racing thoughts. All of them guilty.
He thought of the slow-motion moment when he’d leapt out of Matt’s car, stared panic-stricken into the back of the ambulance, and felt that treacherous wave of relief when he’d seen that it was Gillian lying in there and not his father. He thought of how he’d spoken (or not spoken) to his father the day before, and how his dad must have been trying to tell him the news – the desperation to get him to come this weekend, the ‘special’ meal they were supposed to have – all scuppered by Joe’s bad case of attitude.
He thought of Gillian’s smile when he was trying to hide the camera he was borrowing for Maya, and how it didn’t mask the fact that Gillian knew what he was doing but she was too nice to question him about it.
He saw again the quilted blanket in the wardrobe – Gillian had been collecting things for the baby. And he’d just thought she was childish.
Mad images skimmed across his brain of screaming babies. Some whining little brat who’d have
been cooed over by Gillian and spoilt by his dad who, in his New Father role, would suddenly become a whole lot more interested in the parenting business than he had been the first time round.
Maybe it’s right that this baby never happened, thought Joe in a crazy split second. Maybe I’m glad.
Joe shuddered as this terrible notion forced its way into his consciousness again and knew it wasn’t true. Much as he resented – had spent years resenting – this cosy coupledom of Gillian and his dad, there was no way he’d wish anything this horrible on them.
But then maybe I’m to blame… he agonised, staring blankly at the silent phone.
The key rattling in the lock made him sit bolt upright and sent his pulse racing. His father’s footsteps sounded heavy as he approached the kitchen.
“All right, Joe?” he nodded, standing in the doorway, eyes red-rimmed, looking tired and suddenly much older.
“Me?” Joe practically squeaked in surprise, the muscles in his throat constricted with tension. “Who cares about me? What about you? What about… Gillian?”
His father shrugged and gave a rumbling sigh that sounded like it was halfway towards being a sob. Joe felt as though he should be doing something vaguely useful – making strong tea or fixing his dad (or himself) a stiff drink. For a moment he even considered crossing the room and hugging his father – but that crushing guilt kept him pinned to his seat.
“She’s– she’s OK,” said his dad, peeling off his jacket and throwing it over the back of a chair. He pulled the seat out and slumped down on it. “They’re going to keep her in for a bit, just to be on the safe side.”
“But the– the baby…” said Joe, clutching at straws, hoping that somehow the medical experts at the hospital had miraculously made everything all right. That was in spite of the evidence he’d seen for himself– the sight he’d glimpsed through his father’s bedroom door of the bloody sheets on the bed. That terrible vision had been the reason he’d bellowed at a perplexed Matt to leave.
“No,” his father said simply, shaking his head and staring at the patterned tablecloth that Gillian had spread out for their rushed meal the night before. “Listen, I think I’m going to get a couple of hours sleep, OK?”
“OK,” muttered Joe, feeling completely out of his depth.
A few hours later, Robert Gladwin walked into a kitchen that smelt of fried breakfast and toast. He glanced at the newly bought Sunday newspapers on the table and then at his son.
“Been up the shop for some stuff. Started making you some breakfast.” Joe looked shyly at his dad as he pulled plates out of the cupboard.
“Thanks, Joe,” said his father, pulling out a chair. He looked over Joe’s shoulder at the clock on the wall. “I’ll just have some coffee for now. I’ve got to phone the hospital shortly and see how Gillian’s doing. I hope I can bring her home today.”
“Dad, I…” Joe began.
“Yes?”
“How old– I mean, how many months?” his son spluttered awkwardly.
“Nearly five months…”
Joe stopped.
Nearly five months? That was pretty far down the line. Why didn’t I spot her… Gillian’s bump yesterday? he asked himself, before realising why. Often enough, he’d thought cruelly of her as the pudgy Cabbage Patch Doll: he probably – ignorantly – assumed she was just getting fatter.
That’s if I’d bothered paying her any attention at all.
“Nearly five months?” he said aloud. “Why did you wait this long to tell me?”
“Well, I wanted to,” his dad began, rising up from his seat and opening a drawer in the pine kitchen dresser, “but I didn’t want to do it over the phone. And you kept making excuses not to come and see us.”
Joe felt like he’d been punched in the stomach. But worse was to come.
“Then, after we got this done,” his dad continued, holding out a strange, blurry little black and white picture, “I really started to put pressure on your mum to get you out here. I thought we could have a nice meal… we could show you this… hope you’d be OK with the news… you know?”
“Did Mum know about the baby?” asked Joe quietly, not lifting his eyes from the hazy grey image of the scan he held in his hand.
“No – I wanted to tell you first. And… well, call me a coward, but I wanted to ask your advice on how to break the news to her.”
The outline of the baby in the picture became fuzzier as hot tears of guilt prickled in Joe’s eyes. His dad had hoped to speak to him like an adult, man to man, and Joe had acted like a sulky, bad-tempered kid, ruining their happiness and perhaps worse…
“It’s my fault,” muttered Joe, dropping his chin on to his chest.
“What? What’s your fault?”
Joe glanced up at his father’s confused face, and angrily wiped away the childish tears that were spilling down his cheeks.
“Losing the baby!” he spat the words out, disgusted with himself and his selfish behaviour. “If I hadn’t spoilt everything, if I hadn’t gone off last night, if I hadn’t wound you guys up by—”
“Whoa, Joe!” Joe’s dad interrupted him, holding his hands palm upwards. “Gillian losing the baby – it’s got nothing to do with you!”
“But I acted like a total moron! I mean, she must have– I should have—” Joe struggled to get his thoughts in shape, running over the way he’d rushed through his food the night before, directing his few gruff snatches of small talk towards his dad and totally blanking Gillian, before rushing out of the door at the sound of Matt’s car horn.
“I should have been nicer.”
“Joey! Honestly, this has nothing to do with you or anything that has or hasn’t gone on this weekend!” said his father agitatedly. “Miscarriages are one of those terrible, inexplicable things that sometimes just happen…”
Joe shook his head, too steeped in guilt to allow himself to believe his father. All he could see in front of him was the little alphabet quilt he’d come across in the wardrobe; the one that wouldn’t be wrapped round a new baby.
“But—”
“But nothing! Gillian hadn’t been feeling great for the past week, so this really, really isn’t your fault, OK?”
The two of them stared wordlessly across the table at each other. It had been a long time since Joe had looked at his father with anything other than contempt in his eyes.
“OK?” repeated Robert Gladwin.
“Uh… OK,” said Joe, finally giving in to his dad’s reassurances.
He felt the warmth of his dad’s fingers as they patted his hand and realised with a shock that it was probably the first time he’d had any physical contact whatsoever with his father since before the separation bombshell.
“God, Joe – I can’t believe you’ve been sitting here all this time blaming yourself!” his dad sighed and then smiled wryly. “Still, it makes a change from me feeling to blame for everything when it comes to you and your mum!”
“Huh?” said Joe, feeling weakened and disorientated after the emotional turmoil of the last few hours.
“I couldn’t help it, you know, Joe,” he smiled sadly. “It wasn’t as though I went out looking for some seedy affair: I fell in love and there was nothing I could do about it. You don’t choose when you fall in love – who with, or how right or wrong that is. You’ll realise that yourself one day when it happens to you.”
In the midst of his muddled feelings, Joe thought of a tumble of reddish curls, a smile so sweet and natural that it made Kerry’s freckle-covered nose crinkle cutely… especially when Ollie made her laugh. Immediately, Joe felt a wave of understanding wash over him. Whatever the rights and wrongs of the original break-up, his father – whose only crime was to love someone – had had to carry the weight of his ‘wrong-doing’ with him every day, ever since.
And maybe that’s a bit much to ask of anyone, Joe mused, wondering if maybe the time had come to ease up on his dad.
“You see, nothing’s black and white, Joey,” his fat
her smiled at him sadly. “Not even what happened with your mum and me.”
“What do you mean?” asked Joe with a jolt.
“Well, it’s not as if your mother’s got a squeaky-clean past record when it comes down to it,” his dad shrugged.
Instantly, Joe’s warm feeling of reconciliation towards his father turned to ice in his veins.
CHAPTER 12
THAT’S WHAT FRIENDS ARE FOR
“Sonja?”
Anna hovered over her, carrying a pot of tea and two scones destined for the old ladies swapping gossip and tales of ailments at the small table by the jukebox.
“What’s up?” Sonja grinned at the waitress.
“It’s your mate, Joe,” said Anna, nodding towards the rear of the café. “He’s in the kitchen, up to his armpits in washing up.”
“Oh, yeah, I forgot. He started working here today, didn’t he?” said Sonja.
“Yeah, well, there’s a lot sharp knives in that basin of water and he’s looking so miserable, I’m scared he might find an alternative use for them, if you see what I mean.”
“Really? What’s wrong with him?”
“I don’t know,” shrugged Anna. “And I don’t really know him well enough to ask. You don’t fancy nipping through and having a word, do you?”
“Of course,” said Sonja, hurriedly standing up. “Is it OK just to go through? I know Nick’s not wild about people wandering through the back.”
“It’s fine. He’s not due back for a bit and we’ll be dead quiet out here for a while now the lunchtime rush is over.”
“OK,” nodded Sonja, scooping up the magazine she’d been about to flick through while she waited for some of the others to arrive. “Oh, Anna – Catrina and Matt are meant to be meeting me here. Give us a shout if they come in, will you?”
“No problem,” Anna smiled as she glided her way over to the impatiently tutting old dears.
Rather than wending her way around the counter and past the old cappuccino machine that had a habit of spluttering out hot steam at unexpected moments, Sonja took the other route to the kitchen, pushing open the ‘Staff Only’ door in the short corridor that led to the loos.