by Alice Ross
And even more over the moon at the Chinese banquet Paul ordered up by way of celebration, washed down with the two bottles of champagne he brought in from his car. The kids were allowed one glass each – including Valentina, whose blatant attempt at sneaking a second was deftly nipped in the bud by Chrissie.
Later that evening, Paul having returned to the home he shared with his soon-to-be-wife, and all the kids in their respective bedrooms, Chrissie retired to her own room, where, as much as she tried, she couldn’t fall asleep. Her head throbbed in the aftermath of Paul’s news. She really was delighted for him and Meg. You only had to be in their presence for ten minutes to notice how well they got along, how their eyes lit up when they looked at one another, how they shared easy banter and made one another laugh. They were perfect soul mates, so lucky to have found one another. Chrissie’s forays into finding her perfect partner had been significantly less successful. Within a year of attaining her single status, her friends had set her up on a couple of blind dates, both of which had failed dismally. From there, she’d made a tentative foray into the world of internet dating, swiftly concluding that it was far too contrived and ever so slightly scary. She much preferred the old-fashioned method of bumping into someone naturally. But, almost four years on, there hadn’t been so much as a natural nudge, never mind a bump. Romance, in any guise, continued to give her a wide berth. Just as it had her entire life. Indeed, so unfamiliar with the concept was she, that she doubted she’d recognise it if it were delivered to the door in a luminous green van, bearing the slogan This Is Romance. Having the children so young and so close together, she and Paul had been too exhausted to engage in any amorous adventures. And even if their energy levels had reached dizzying heights, cash – or, more specifically, lack of it – had always been an issue: candlelit dinners in intimate restaurants and cosy weekends in log cabins stretching way beyond their financial reach. But while Paul appeared to be making up for it now with Meg, whisking her off for an exotic, beachside wedding, the most tropical thing in Chrissie’s life remained, somewhat depressingly, the pineapple on the Hawaiian pizza in the freezer.
Chapter Three
‘Mum, have you seen my magnifying glass?’
In the kitchen, buttering a slice of toast, Chrissie rolled her eyes. If she had a pound for every time one of her kids began a sentence with ‘Mum, have you seen…?’ there’d be absolutely no need to wear herself out knocking down walls that morning.
Still, she shouldn’t be too hard on them, she reasoned. The phrase being bandied about more than usual since the move to Lovelace Lane could easily be attributed to the house being a building site – no one’s fault but hers.
‘Last time I saw it was after you’d been examining an owl pellet. It was on your chest of drawers,’ she called back.
‘It’s not there now.’
‘Well, in that case, I suggest you look somewhere else.’
A thud of ascending feet on the bare boards of the stairs accompanied this suggestion. Followed shortly by a double descending thud.
‘Mum, can I have some jeans like Valentina’s?’
Jerking up her head from her buttering, Chrissie discovered her daughter and their guest entering the room. Jess - semi-smart in her burgundy uniform, grey woollen tights, too-short skirt and fat striped tie. And Valentina - semi-bored, in a sequinned velvet bodice top, strategically ripped jeans and high-heeled ankle boots.
Stalling for a few seconds while she weighed up how best to handle the situation, Chrissie grabbed a tea towel and wiped her hands on it, rapidly concluding that a confrontational response would most likely end in tears – probably hers – so it would be best to kick off with a subtler approach.
‘Well,’ she began, forcing up the corners of her lips, ‘they do look great. But I’m not sure they’re appropriate for school.’
‘The exchange students can wear whatever they like,’ Jess batted back.
Chrissie attempted a nonchalant tone. ‘Yes, but given the temperature today is nine degrees, I’m worried Valentina might be a bit cold. How about I loan you one of my sweaters?’ she offered their guest.
Horror swept over Valentina’s beautiful – fully-made-up - face. ‘No. I have jacket,’ she announced, proffering something pink that looked more like a beach cover-up to Chrissie.
‘I think she looks really cool,’ gushed Harry, thundering into the room.
‘Precisely my point,’ chortled Chrissie. ‘She will be very cool.’
Her weak attempt at humour evidently sailing right over the heads of her audience, three sets of eyes regarded her dubiously.
She cleared her throat and tried again. ‘Valentina isn’t used to our climate. She probably has no idea how cold it gets here.’
‘I fine,’ announced Valentina, before whisking around on her heels and strutting out of the room – pert booty and all.
Jess and Harry scuttled after her.
‘Right,’ puffed Chrissie, as the front door banged shut behind them. ‘And you all have a good day too.’
Chrissie didn’t spend too long dwelling on the appalling manners of the youth of today. Nor what the school would make of Valentina’s most un-school-like attire. Hopefully, if they did disapprove, they wouldn’t expect her to do anything about it. Because she wouldn’t have the first clue what to do about it. The Brazilian didn’t appear the type who took kindly to being told what to do. Which made Chrissie wonder what her parents must be like. And, more poignantly, if she really wanted Jess to travel ten thousand miles to a city which didn’t rank among the world’s safest, to stay with folk who appeared to give their child a very free rein. Resolving to dig out and re-read all the information the school had sent regarding Valentina’s family arrangements, Chrissie also determined to enquire if the establishment offered any other exchange programmes with slightly less exciting, glamorous and potentially dangerous locations – like Rhyl or Leigh-on-Sea. In the meantime, she really had to start removing the walls which she, her architect and the structural engineer had agreed were no longer required. Because, if they weren’t out by the time the trades were due to arrive, it would knock her schedule back weeks.
She’d start with the warren of tiny rooms at the rear of the kitchen, she decided, scooping up her chestnut hair into a ponytail. Trying not to think about how much time had passed since her last visit to the hairdresser, she then positioned her hard hat on her head, swiped up her tools and set about her task.
Having worked alongside the professionals for five years now, Chrissie had, courtesy of their supervision and a smattering of courses at the local college, acquired all kinds of skills. She could carry out basic plumbing, plaster a wall and erect a fence, as well as any man. And the last time she’d tried her hand at tiling, her efforts had been highly praised by a master of the trade. Not only did these competencies save her a fortune, they also saved masses of waiting-for-people time.
She’d just screwed up a couple of after-dinner mint wrappers that were fluttering about on the floor, chucked them into the rubble in her wheelbarrow and was trundling the whole lot out to the skip at the side of the house, when a glint of sunlight bouncing off glass caught her eye. Juddering to a halt, she lowered the barrow and scanned a clump of overgrown bushes from whence the glint had come. Where, to her astonishment, she spotted a man.
Spying up at the house through binoculars.
Crap! She’d known it had been a stupid idea allowing Harry to take those pictures of Valentina yesterday. Now, courtesy of social media, word had obviously reverberated around the ether that there was a Brazilian Lolita on the premises. People all over the world could have viewed Harry’s photos and, therefore, the teenager’s seductive poses, including, she realised with a surge of panic, mafia-types who smuggled girls abroad and sold them into the sex slave trade. Crikey. And she thought she’d had problems with the lack of school uniform earlier.
Briefly wondering if she should nip back to the house for her hammer before she approached the perpe
trator, then deciding she might be the one to end up in prison - for brandishing an offensive weapon, she instead abandoned the wheelbarrow and marched over to him.
Reaching the bushes, she stopped, sucked in a breath, and drew up every inch of her five-foot-four frame.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she demanded, mustering her most assertive tone, which came out slightly wobbly.
The man, binoculars still fixed on a spot significantly higher than Chrissie’s five-foot-four, evidently hadn’t seen her until that point. He appeared more startled than her, as his feet briefly left the ground and his binoculars toppled from his hands and danced about on the strap around his neck. Surveying him all the while, Chrissie had to admit that, with his bottle green duffel coat, grey beanie hat, preppy striped scarf and trendy specs, he wasn’t your archetypal mafia-type. But, on the other hand, that could all be a cunning disguise. And the suntan he sported was definitely suspect. Only people who owned a timeshare in Tenerife had a suntan in Newcastle in February. And he didn’t look like one of those either.
‘Oh, I-I’m sorry,’ he blustered, tan deepening with what appeared to be an underlying flush. ‘I was just… looking for a bird.’
Chrissie balked. Firstly, at hearing the irritating “bird” reference for the second time in twenty-four hours. And secondly, at his audacity. Obviously, he possessed neither the intelligence nor the imagination to conjure up something less incriminating. Not that it would have made any difference. She wouldn’t have believed a word. He was clearly up to no good. And she wasn’t putting up with it.
‘Were you indeed?’ she growled, anger ramming aside any gangster-inspired nerves. ‘Well, she’s not here. And for your information she’s not “a bird”, she’s a young woman. And a sixteen-year-old one at that. Which means I could not only have you up in court for trespassing, but also for stalking a minor.’ She stopped, heart racing as she silently congratulated herself on her little speech. It had sounded rather good.
Or at least it had to her.
The man seemed of a different opinion.
Snagging his bottom lip between his teeth, he made a strange noise which sounded to Chrissie like a laugh, clumsily disguised as a cough. ‘Um, actually—’
‘Morning, Chrissie,’ chirped Sally Turnbull, suddenly appearing at the bottom of the drive. Sally lived next door with her gorgeous husband, Carl. And, with Sally being equally gorgeous, they made a gorgeous couple. Today she looked a vision in a purple velvet coat and matching floppy hat, her long blonde hair spilling over her shoulders. Chrissie, with her paint-splattered overalls, dust-covered face and decidedly unfloppy, unvelvety hard hat, could not have felt more of a mess had she had the word glued on her forehead in sparkly orange sequins.
‘Ooh, how lovely. You’ve already met Carl’s brother,’ gushed Sally.
‘Carl’s brother?’ echoed Chrissie, flicking a brief, horrified look at the duffel coat.
‘Yes. Chrissie, this is Olly. Olly, this is Chrissie. Olly’s an ornithologist, just back from a six-month project in South America.’
Eyes now firmly fixed on her beaming neighbour, Chrissie gawped as this information zipped along her synapses. Not only was this man Carl’s brother, but he was an ornithologist. Suffused with a burning desire to ensure she hadn’t confused her -ologists, she muttered, ‘An ornithologist as in someone who studies… birds?’
‘Absolutely,’ confirmed Sally. ‘He’s incredibly well-respected in his field. Oh! In his field.’ She snorted with laughter. ‘That’s quite funny, isn’t it?’
Chrissie tried a smile. It didn’t leave the starting block. Instead, she glanced again at the well-respected-in-his-field Olly, who, now a dazzling shade of pink, appeared equally as mortified as her.
All signs of mortification evidently bypassing Sally, she rattled on. ‘Actually, I’m pleased I’ve seen you, Chrissie. Carl and I have some exciting news.’ She pressed her hands to her chest. ‘We’re having a baby. And from my dates we’ve worked out that it’s a Christmas one.’
Seizing not only the welcome change of subject, but also the lovely news, Chrissie’s lips curved into a grin. ‘Congratulations. How exciting.’
‘I know. We’ve been trying for years. And even though we’re not supposed to tell anyone until after twelve weeks, we’re so thrilled we’re telling the entire world.’
‘You tell whoever you want. I’m sure the entire world will be thrilled for you.’
‘Thanks,’ replied Sally, glowing with happiness. ‘Anyway, must get on. I’m taking Olly out for lunch today. He had his fortieth birthday while he was away, so Carl and I are treating him this week.’
Chrissie blinked. Olly. Forty! He looked more like a student than a man on the brink of middle age. Aware of Sally and her apparently forty-year-old brother-in-law staring at her expectantly, she heard herself muttering, ‘Right. Well, er, have a nice time’.
‘Thanks. We will. Oh, and you must come round for dinner soon so we can have a proper catch-up and you can tell Olly all about your plans for the house. No rush. He’s going to be with us for a few weeks.’
‘Great,’ murmured Chrissie, to whom wading naked through a vat of cold porridge seemed preferable at that moment to telling Olly all about her plans for the house. She’d much rather the man in front of whom she’d just made a monumental prat of herself jumped on a plane back to South America. Or the South Pole. Or indeed anywhere north, south, east or west, that would place a minimum of two thousand miles between him and Lovelace Lane.
Back razing walls a few minutes later, humiliation gradually subsiding as she went about her work, it occurred to Chrissie that this year, even in its infancy, was already poised to be a momentous one for several people of her acquaintance: Paul and Meg with their wedding, neighbours Gwen and Gerry becoming grandparents, and now Carl and Sally having their first baby. If things continued at this rate, she might end up being the only one without anything to celebrate. Still, life may not have turned out to be quite as exciting as she’d hoped when she’d joined the ranks of thirty-something singletons. There were no gorgeous men queuing around the block to ask her out, and the nearest she’d come to a steamy encounter had been when she’d accidentally stood on someone’s foot in the sauna on a girly spa day a couple of months ago. But she still had much to be thankful for, she reminded herself: good health, two fantastic kids, a job she wouldn’t swap for the world. And an almost-removed wall that, even if she said so herself, was shaping up rather well.
The children - including Valentina – arrived home later that afternoon, abuzz with how popular their house guest had proved at school, elevating them to towering heights in the eyes of their peers.
‘Even Tiffany Wakefield said she liked Valentina’s top. And she’s like the coolest girl in school. Or she was until Valentina showed up,’ cooed Jess.
Chrissie arched a dubious eyebrow.
‘And you should’ve seen the boys’ faces when the teacher asked her to come to the front of the class and talk about a typical day at her school in Rio. I thought Niall Havers was going to have a heart attack.’
While Jess and Harry snorted with laughter, Valentina flicked her hair and gave a derogatory sniff.
‘I do not like these English boys. In Brazil they are much more… how you say… mature.’
Jess stopped laughing. ‘Really? And I bet they don’t have spots either?’
‘No. They have the stubble.’
Jess’s eyes almost popped out of her head. ‘Oh my God, Mum. I’m going to look like a complete bumpkin when I go over there. I’ll have to do something with my hair. And I’m going to need a whole new wardrobe. Valentina, will you come shopping with me?’
Valentina gave a weary sigh. ‘Okay,’ she drawled, in a tone which implied she’d rather wade naked through a vat of cold porridge.
‘Perhaps we could all go,’ suggested Chrissie, images of the kinds of purchases her daughter might make under Valentina’s influence flashing through her mind – severa
l of which included leather, tassels and holes in places you really wouldn’t want a draught.
This proposal, obviously too naff to warrant a vocal response, met with a synchronised eye-roll from her female audience, before the girls turned in unison and sashayed out of the room and up the stairs.
Chrissie slumped down onto one of the wobbly old chairs at the table, attempting to calm her nerves, which were now jangling more than a windchime under a hand dryer at the thought of Jess going shopping, never mind all the way to Rio in three months. Three months! What kind of state would she have worked herself into by the time that came round? She drew in several juddering breaths, wondering if she was overreacting. After all, apart from a couple of jaunts with the school – to calm, safe, uneventful places like the Lake District, and the odd sleepover at friends’ houses - this trip would be her daughter’s first solo adventure from home. And, more significantly, the first involving air travel. Meaning Chrissie or Paul couldn’t just jump in the car and go and pick her up if she fell ill, or became the victim of a crime, or anything horrific, frightening or harmful happened to her – the number of scenarios which might lead to such a requirement multiplying at a rate of knots in her now-frantic mind. So, taking all that into account, it was hardly surprising that Overly Protective Parent Syndrome had kicked in.
Still, she decided, as Taylor Swift’s dulcet tones began blasting down the stairs, she really should dig out that information pack from the school and scrutinise it properly. It shamed her to admit it, but it had landed bang in the middle of her drowning in mortgage problems with Yew Tree House. That bad timing, added to Jess’s insistence that she wanted to go whatever, made Chrissie suspect – with several pangs of guilt – that perhaps both she and Paul hadn’t paid quite as much attention to the finer details as she should have, reasoning that the school must have vetted and approved the host families.