‘For goodness sake, India, do you have to be so clumsy?’ she said, leaping about with paper towels and kitchen cloths. ‘And what exactly are you eating?’
‘Just a sandwich.’
‘It looks more like an entire loaf of bread to me,’ said Mum, mopping. ‘You don’t seem to be taking your diet very seriously, India.’
She pointedly put two lemons into the blender. Mum’s breakfast.
She always goes on and on and on about my diet as if my size is the only significant thing about me. The blender rattled away. Mum looked at me. Maybe she was wondering if she could stuff me in along with the lemons and squeeze me right down to the pulp. I doubt I’d fit into a Moya Upton outfit even then.
I took a large defiant bite of my sandwich, smacking my lips. Mum sighed and switched off the blender. She poured her juice and drank it up. Her cheeks sucked in a little at the sourness but she’d rather die than add a little sugar.
‘I think you’re anorexic, Mum,’ I said.
‘Don’t be ridiculous. I just care about my body. It’s time you took a little care of yourself too, India, now you’re growing up.’
She said the words growing up with extreme emphasis, as if I was shooting straight up to the ceiling and spreading till I could touch all the walls at once. Roll up, roll up, to see the Incredible Growing Girl, twenty metres high, 1000 kilos and rapidly increasing. It’s pretty humiliating when your own mother treats you like a circus freak.
‘You’ll turn me anorexic if you carry on nagging me about my weight,’ I said, bolting the last of my sandwich.
Mum gave this horrible false tinkly laugh. ‘That’ll be the day!’
She said it spitefully, as sour as her lemon juice. I turned my back on her, opening the fridge up, pretending to be searching for more food. I didn’t want her to see the tears in my eyes.
‘India?’
‘What?’ I said, as rudely as I dared, my head still in the fridge. I wondered if my tears would turn into tiny stalactites if I stayed there long enough.
‘I’m sorry, sweetie. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings,’ she said softly. Well, as soft as she gets.
She didn’t mean to hurt my feelings? She expects it to feel like fun when your own mother implies you are GROSS?
I felt like I was growing a frosty mask inside the fridge. She was sorry for me now. Well, I could tell her straight, ‘Don’t feel sorry for me, Mum, feel sorry for yourself. Everyone hates you. Even Dad prefers Wanda to you.’
I wouldn’t say it. But thinking it made me feel better. I straightened up and smiled calmly at my mother.
‘I’m fine, Mum, really.’
‘What are your plans for today, darling?’ she said, sitting on a kitchen stool and crossing one long, elegant, tanned hairless leg over the other. She wears matching silk nighties and negligées in subtle strange colours, inky-blue with pink lace, forest green with turquoise lace, coffee with tangerine lace. I used to love her nighties. I liked sneaking into Mum’s bedroom and dressing up in their silky softness, playing at being a princess.
I couldn’t stick wearing anything of Mum’s now. Well. They wouldn’t fit anyway.
Mum always wants me to have plans. She can’t ever let me drift through the day doing just what I feel like. She has the engagement diary approach to life. She’d like every half hour of my day filled in.
I shrugged and mumbled something about homework.
‘Oh darling, you and your homework!’ she said, as if it’s my personal eccentricity.
She is the only mother in my class who really doesn’t care about her daughter’s marks. She seems to find it vaguely embarrassing when I come top.
‘And I’m going to read this new book about Anne Frank.’
‘I know Anne Frank’s story is very moving, India, but don’t you think it’s a little morbid being so obsessed by her?’
‘No, I think it’s perfectly normal. She’s my hero, my inspiration.’
Mum gave a little snort. She was laughing at me. I tried to think of the frost in the fridge but I couldn’t stop my face turning beetroot red.
‘Well, I’m going to get into my running things,’ said Mum, swallowing the last of her lemon. She put her head on one side. ‘I don’t suppose you’d care to join me?’
I bared my teeth in a grin to make it plain I knew she was joking.
‘Maybe we can go shopping together when I get back?’ said Mum.
I think she must have read some article about high-powered career mums spending ‘quality time’ with their daughters. But I hate, hate, hate shopping with Mum. I like shopping, so long as it’s my way. Wanda and I go to Woolworths or Wilkinsons, where everything is bright and cheap, and we play this game seeing how many things we can buy for a fiver. I like choosing girly notebooks with pink checks and puppies and gel pens and peachy sweet scent and little floppy toy animals and lots and lots and lots of pick’n’mix sweets. Then we go to McDonald’s and I have a McFlurry and if it goes down too quickly I’ll have another. And maybe even another if Wanda is in a truly good mood. Sadly she hasn’t been in a good mood for ages.
I wonder if I should try talking to her? Try to comfort her, maybe – because this thing with Dad seems to be making her so unhappy.
It makes me feel unhappy thinking about her and Dad. If I didn’t love him I think maybe I’d hate him – the way I hate Mum.
I don’t really hate her.
Yes I do.
I certainly hate her when we go shopping together. We nearly always have to go to the places that stock Moya Upton clothes. She has a sneaky check on the stock. The salesgirls generally twig who she is and go into a twitter. There’s often a rich mother with some horrible, pretty, skinny daughter trying on the latest little Moya Upton number and they go all squeaky when they’re introduced to Mum. Sometimes they get her to do the dumbest stuff like sign her own label. All the time they’re admiring Mum their eyes keep swivelling round to me as if they can’t believe that I can possibly be her daughter.
I sometimes long to be an orphan.
Mum came back into the kitchen in her tiny grey jogging suit. She waggled her manicured nails at me and then darted off out the back door. She looked like a sleek slim rat, whiskers well shaved, eyes bright and beady. This does not sound flattering, I know. But if I were squeezed into her grey jogging suit another obvious animal springs – no, lumbers – into my mind’s eye. It is gross to compare your mother to a rodent. It is even grosser to know that she thinks of you as an elephant. Not just your mother. Lots and lots and lots of people make pachyderm remarks when I’m around.
Maybe it’s not so bad. Elephants are intelligent animals. They are meant to have superb memories. It sounds like boasting, but my own memory is phenomenal. I can quote long passages of Anne’s diary by heart now.
I shall lend it to Treasure because I just know she’ll love it too. I re-read a few favourite parts while I ate another little breakfast. (I’d discovered Wanda’s pop-tarts tucked at the back of the larder. She seems to have lost her appetite recently but mine is ever-present.) Then I wrote more of my own diary. Wanda was up by this time, yawning and sighing.
‘What’s up, Wanda?’
She looked at me, shrugged and flicked her long wet hair out of her face, making a tiny rainstorm over her shoulders.
‘Is it Dad?’
She jumped as if I’d shot at her. ‘No! What do you mean? Are those my pop-tarts you’re eating? Stop it, you greedy girl! Your dad! Why should I be upset about your dad?’
It’s definitely my dad.
She drifted off, saying she was going to dry her hair. I heard her going mutter-mutter upstairs with Dad.
Then five minutes later Dad bounded into the kitchen, all wired up. Clicking his fingers and tutting his tongue against his teeth. He came out with all this guff about poor Wanda being homesick. Do they think I’m mad? I know what’s going on. I think they’re mad. Dad liked Wanda’s friend Suzi a lot more than Wanda herself. Everyone could see that
at the New Year’s Eve party – even Wanda. And what is she doing getting mixed up with my dad? He’s old enough to be her dad too.
I don’t understand love affairs. I’m not ever going to make a fool of myself that way. I’m sooooo glad Treasure hasn’t got a boyfriend. I don’t want one either.
I hope we’ll stay friends until we’re grown up and then we could maybe share a flat together. I wonder what Treasure wants to be when she grows up? I want to be a writer, of course, just like Anne. It would be great if my books became big, big hits so that I don’t have to use a penny of Mum and Dad’s money. Yes, I shall earn all my own money – heaps of it – and then even if Treasure doesn’t have a well-paid job it won’t matter a bit because I could take care of the rent.
If my books don’t sell well it won’t really matter. We could make do with a very modest flat. We could maybe even rent one on the Latimer Estate. Then Treasure’s family could come and visit every day. I don’t think I want my family to visit at all. Not even Dad. He hates the Latimer Estate.
We drove through it after lunch. I was feeling sick. Dad said he’d take me out to lunch, just us two, anywhere I wanted. I was thrilled he was in a good mood for once. I thought hard, trying to think of the perfect place. I thought Dad would like somewhere really fancy and sophisticated. I remembered this lovely Italian place we went to once on Mum’s birthday.
‘Let’s go to La Terrazza!’ I said.
‘Oh for God’s sake, India,’ Dad shouted.
It was the worst choice ever. I hadn’t realized it was terribly expensive. Dad went on and on about it, asking if I thought he was made of money. He thought I’d choose McDonald’s like any other kid, maybe Pizza Express if I was pushing it – but La Terrazza was ridiculous. Still, he’d said I could go anywhere, so fine, right, never let it be said that he couldn’t keep his word. I was practically in tears by this time. I told him that I didn’t really want to go to La Terrazza and I’d love to go to McDonald’s – but Dad wouldn’t drop it. He took me to La Terrazza and I chose the dish of the day because it was supposed to be a bargain. It was a seafood spaghetti dish that looked horribly like cooked worms and slugs. I pretended it was delicious. I said I was having a lovely time. I told Dad he was wonderful, giving me such a treat. Dad ate lots too – and he drank a bottle of wine.
I thought we’d leave the car outside the restaurant and get a taxi back home but Dad opened the car door, gesturing for me to get inside. I didn’t know what to do. I knew he shouldn’t be driving after all that drink (he’d also had a brandy while I struggled with three scoops of ice-cream) but I didn’t dare say anything in case he got mad again. He’d cheered up now. He said I was his little princess, the number-one girl in his life.
So the number-one girl got in the car and crossed her fingers and prayed. He drove carefully enough, singing cod-Pavarotti arias: ‘Oh, La Terrazza, all the waiters are Prats-sa, we’ll give them no tips, why can’t we eat ch-i-ps . . .’ I laughed as if I thought he was the funniest man ever, peering out of the window as we drove through the Latimer Estate. I looked out for Treasure. I wanted to tell Dad all about her but I knew it wouldn’t work.
One of the skateboarding boys swooped dangerously close to our car, only just jumping off in time, his skateboard going clunk against our bumper. Dad braked furiously and leapt out the car. He shouted at the boy. The boy shouted something much ruder back, and stuck his finger up in the air before running away. While Dad was angrily examining his scratched paintwork, Mrs Watkins who lives next door to Treasure’s nan came shuffling past, her weird grown-up son loping along beside her, swinging their Safeway’s bags.
‘Watch them bags, Michael! Don’t bash them like that,’ she grumbled.
‘Sorry, Mum,’ Michael said meekly – but when he saw me sitting in the car he stuck his tongue out and waggled it behind his mother’s back. I smiled politely. Dad looked up, frowning at both of us. He got back in the car, slamming the door.
‘What a stinky dumping ground this is,’ he said, driving away. ‘Foul-mouthed little vandals and total nutters. They should all be locked up. I wish we didn’t live so close by.’
I wondered what Dad would say if he knew I’d been to tea here with my best friend. I was desperate to see her again but I knew it was better to bide my time. When we got back home Wanda greeted us wistfully, asking all about the meal. I felt bad, wishing Dad had invited her too. Mum was out again. She’d left a note to say she’d gone to an art exhibition with Bella, Miranda’s mum.
‘Big Belly-Button,’ said Dad, crumpling up the note.
Bella isn’t really big, she’s got a lovely figure, and her belly is as flat as a pancake but Dad always acts like she looks awful. Maybe he tried to chat her up once and she wasn’t interested? I quite like chatting to Bella myself because she treats me like a real person and she doesn’t always seem to be sniggering up her sleeve at me. I’d have normally been hurt that they hadn’t asked me along too. I’d been wanting to find out how Miranda is getting on at boarding school – but now I couldn’t give two hoots. I’m not bothered about boring old Miranda any more. I don’t think she ever really wanted to be my friend. Anyway, I’ve got a much, much, much better friend now. And with Mum out of the way maybe I could sneak out to see her.
Dad said he had to catch up with some figurework and went off to his study. Wanda trailed along after him, wondering if she could help. Wanda, who can’t even count her change properly! Dad screwed up his face and sighed at her, so she sloped off, looking mournful. I don’t know what she sees in him.
I waited half an hour, racing through my weekend homework to while away the time. I heard clinking and little glug-glug-glug sounds from Dad’s study. He was having even more to drink. He’d be seeing double when he looked at those figures.
I hovered in the hall. I heard Wanda in the living room whispering on the phone. I hoped she was talking to all her relatives in Australia. Serve Dad right if he had to pay a massive bill. I walked heavily up the stairs to my room in case Dad or Wanda were listening – and then tiptoed down a minute later, sooo softly, right along the hall and out the front door. I shut it behind me very slowly so that it clicked shut with scarcely a sound.
I stood outside in my own driveway, took a deep breath, and then set out for the Latimer Estate. Treasure would be so surprised. I’d thought I’d only be able to see her after school but now there seemed no reason at all why I couldn’t slip away at the weekend too whenever I had the chance.
Treasure wasn’t in the grounds on her bike. I asked one of the skateboarding boys if he’d seen Treasure but he just shrugged. At least he didn’t call names after me. I looked more normal in my Saturday jeans and sweatshirt and jacket (all from Gap – absolutely not Moya Upton). I was dying to show Treasure I don’t always look like I’ve stepped straight out of The Twins at St Clare’s.
I opted for the stair route so I was breathless by the time I got to Treasure’s landing. I hurried past Mrs Watkins and Mumbly Michael’s flat and knocked on Treasure’s door. Her grandma answered it. She looked different, older somehow, and her hair was all tousled as if she’d been running her fingers through it.
‘Oh, it’s you . . . India,’ she said, obviously barely remembering my name.
‘Can I see Treasure?’
She swallowed, glancing behind her. ‘She’s not here, pet. She’s gone out with the other kids.’
‘Oh. Well, do you know when she’ll be back?’
She looked anxious and shook her head. Someone was shouting inside her flat. Some man.
‘You’d better run back home, dear,’ Nan said.
This man suddenly came out into the hall, a horrible man in a check shirt and black jeans, his dirty-blond hair all greasy and flopping over his forehead. His eyes were green and glacial.
‘Who are you?’ he said, glaring at me.
I knew who he was. Terry, Treasure’s stepfather. The one who marked her face. I looked at his waist. There was the belt. I saw the buckle and shivere
d.
‘It’s just a little girl from up Parkfield,’ said Nan. She nodded at me. ‘Off you go, pet.’
But the Belt Man stepped forward. ‘Are you a pal of Treasure’s, eh?’
I nodded.
‘So where is she, then?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Of course she doesn’t know, Terry. She thought she was here.’
‘Or maybe Treasure sent her, to see if me and her mum had cleared off yet?’ said Terry. He suddenly seized me by the shoulders.
‘Leave that kid alone, Terry,’ said Nan sharply.
He loosened his grip a little. ‘You’re sure you don’t know where Treasure is?’
I shook my head, trying to act like he couldn’t scare me.
‘Let her go,’ said Nan.
‘I’m not doing anything to her,’ said Terry. He put his head close to mine. ‘Well, listen here, sweetheart. You tell your little pal Treasure she’s to stop playing us up and come on home. She’s making her mum poorly. You tell her, right?’
‘I’ll tell her if I see her,’ I said, wriggling my shoulders free.
‘That’s it, lovie, you scoot off home,’ said Nan.
I ran all the way. I forgot to be cautious going back. Dad heard the front door and came out into the hall.
‘India?’ He blinked at me, looking fuddled. ‘Have you been out?’
‘Yes, but just . . . just to the shop on the corner.’
Dad’s face cleared. ‘Ah! Chocolate?’
‘Don’t tell Mum when she comes back, will you?’
He grinned and put his fingers to his lips. ‘Your secret’s safe with me.’
He slurred the s’s a bit but I pretended not to notice he was drunk. Dad frightens me sometimes now because he’s so moody – but he’s nowhere near as scary as Terry.
Poor, poor Treasure. I’m so scared for her.
Eleven
Treasure
I DON’T KNOW what to do. I’ve been sitting in McDonald’s for hours and hours. We’ve had a Big Mac and French fries, then Cokes, then ice-cream with butterscotch sauce, then more Cokes, and then one further portion of French fries between us. Willie’s gone to have another scout round to see if Terry’s van is still parked at our flats. He’ll ring if it’s safe to come back. I’ve got Loretta’s mobile. She’s gone home with Britney. It’s OK, Terry won’t pick on her. It’s only me he’s after.
Secrets Page 8