183 Times a Year (17 page)

‘Enjoy it while you still can.'

I smile. ‘Yeah I know; he'll be a moody teenager before I know it. But at least I know Connor loves me – well, at the moment anyway – whereas the other two?' I roll my eyes. ‘I really think they hate me sometimes.'

‘Course they hate you, but they love you too,' Jodi replies. ‘They're just bloody teenagers. At least you haven't been compared to Hitler.'

I wrinkle my nose in bemused confusion. ‘Sorry, what? What on earth do you mean?'

Jodi explains how she overheard the end of a conversation between Rob and Emily the other morning. ‘I walked in on them just as Rob said, “No Emily, unless your Mum is committing
genocide,
she is not
just like Hitler
”. Great eh? Adolf bloody Hitler!' We both laugh.

‘Hey, and what about Rosamunde and Sophie?' Jodi continues. ‘Did you hear about
that
?'

Jodi, ever the raconteur, starts to tell me of an argument between Rosamunde “Super Mum” Smythe and her “perfect” fifteen-year-old daughter, Sophie.

‘It was something to do with texting, at the table I think,' Jodi continues, stroking Joshua's head, now buried between the crook of her left arm and her voluptuous left breast. ‘Rosamunde reminded Sophie of the house rule about “no technology at mealtimes” and asked her to put her phone away. Acting defiantly out of character, Sophie refused. So – also quite out of character for the usually calm, “my children slept through the night, only eat organic food, are disciplined through routine (unlike everyone else's feral children) and are limited to several hours of TV and gadget use a day” – Rosamunde totally and utterly lost it.'

‘Really?' I ask, finding it both slightly amusing and quite frankly, a relief, to know the normally self-possessed Rosamunde could ever lose it.

‘Yeah, well and truly. Apparently. Despite a few tried and tested threats, Sophie stubbornly refused to give up her phone. It's a relief to know the girl is real after all, eh?'

Jodi continued to explain that Rosamunde then proceeded to get up from the table and purposely take some chocolate from the cupboard. She carefully broke the chocolate into pieces and placed it a bowl and then put the bowl into the microwave. She melted the chocolate and then, using a pastry brush, began to paint her hands.

I shoot Jodi a quizzical look. ‘Why?'

‘Patience my friend, I'm getting there. So, Rosamunde starts to paint her hands, completely covering both palms and all her
fingers…'
Jodi pauses for a moment to lay a now very sleepy Joshua on the sofa next to his already sleeping sister, rubbing her dead left arm back to life.

‘And?' I ask.

Jodi smirks. ‘Weee-lllllll,' she continues, ‘she then goes upstairs to Sophie's bedroom, where only hours earlier Sophie had proudly made up her bed with a
BRAND NEW
, crisp
WHITE
duvet set purchased with her own birthday money.'

My mind is racing ahead. I gasp, crossing both hands over my mouth. ‘No? She didn't?'

Jodi's grin is somewhat triumphant. ‘She did. Chocolate covered handprints
all
over Sophie's new
WHITE
bedding. Then, get this; Sophie and Rosamunde start fighting, well almost. From what I can gather they exchanged a few blows before Mike intervened and split them both up.

‘Really?' I am both appalled and amused at the same time.

‘Yeah, poor Rosser, apparently she's having a few problems at work; you know, the usual – budget cuts, talk of redundancy. And Mike hasn't been well either; think they're still waiting to find out if it's cancer or not? I think Sophie was the straw that broke the proverbial camel's back, so to speak.'

‘Well, well, well,' I reply, shaking my head. Who'd have thought it, Rosamunde as flawed as the rest of us? I guess there's hope for us yet then eh?' We both laugh.

Jodi walks over to and opens one of the kitchen cupboards. She reaches for a pack of chocolate biscuits, scatters them on a plate and puts the plate in the middle of the table.

‘Jaffa cakes, don't you just love em?' She says helping herself. I do, and also reach for a couple. We continue to talk, pausing now and again to cram in more Jaffa cakes.

‘It's girls though you know? I say. ‘I'm convinced they're more trouble than boys. Talking of which, how's Emily? Did she like the Ed Sheeran concert tickets you bought her for her birthday?'

Jodi
rolls her eyes at me and sighs heavily. ‘Yes, she liked them.' The intonation in her voice is flat with disappointment. ‘She actually hugged me, which was a complete surprise.' She's quiet for a moment, there's a “but” coming.

‘But?' I finally say it for her.

‘But,' she repeats, ‘I couldn't understand why she kept going outside and looking out of the front window. Finally, in the evening, before her ten million friends came round for a sleepover, she asked me if, “that was it,
just
Ed Sheeran tickets”. I was slightly thrown and asked her what she'd been expecting. Do you know what her reply was?'

I shrug my shoulders.

‘A car!' Jodi shrieks, making me jump. She nervously looks across at the twins and lowers her voice to a whisper. ‘A car, like everyone else!' she hisses. ‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?' Jodi raises her questioning hands in exasperation. ‘Does she think bloody money grows on trees? Of course then she goes off into a major rant about how
her
needs have been sacrificed because of the twins.' Jodi's voice is climaxing again. ‘God, I could kill her sometimes.' Her raised voice makes both the twins jump a little; their startled, big brown eyes flickering open in confusion before, thankfully, closing again. Jodi lowers her voice again and attempts a half-hearted laugh. ‘I'm thinking of starting a blog for desperate Mum's with teenage daughters,' she says. ‘How to Murder Your Teenage Daughters, all ideas welcome. What do you think?'

Chapter 15

PARTY TIME!

LIZZIE

How can so few people make so much noise? Simon is just in from work, he looks tired, Cassie and Maisy are upstairs getting ready for separate parties and Connor is downstairs opening the front door to my parents and their dog Freddy.

‘There ya go sunshine,' Dad says to Connor passing him a huge slab of chocolate and a £5 note.

‘Thanks Grandad,' Connor replies, throwing his arms around Dad, ‘you're sick.'

‘What? Eh? What'd ya mean? I'm not sick?' Dad replies.

‘No Dad,' I begin to explain, ‘it's just what the youngsters say. Sick means good, I told you this the other day when you got a bit confused with Cassie – remember?'

‘Well, why the hell doesn't he just say “good” then?'

‘Stop being so cantankerous,' Mum says, ‘and move out the way and let the dog in.' She looks tired, but well.

‘You okay Mum?' I ask.

‘I'm fine love, fine,' she says. But of course she'd say that even if she wasn't.

‘MUM! Mummmmmmm! MUM!' Cassie shouts down the stairs just as the dog spots the cat sitting midway up the stairs. Romeow stares down at Freddy, flicking his tail dismissively. Freddy holds Romeow's stare, barking incessantly. He places a tentative paw on the first step, eager to mount the stairs to seek and make friends with the living, breathing,
ginger
fur ball, but hardly daring to go any further for fear of being cruelly swiped across the nose as he was on his previous visit.

‘Quiet Freddy,' Dad barks. Freddy stops barking, immediately, lowering his head and eyes like a chastised child.

‘MUM,' Cassie shouts again, ‘is my hair here?'

‘What did she say?' Dad asks, looking slightly baffled. ‘Is her ear ere?

‘No Dad,' I reply, both amused and exasperated. ‘She's asking if her hair is here.' Now Dad looks at a complete loss.

‘If a here's here?'

‘No Dad,' I repeat, ‘her hair, she's asking if her hair has come in the post.'

‘Hair? In the post? What on earth …?'

‘Oh for goodness sake Salocin,' Mum says, her voice clipped and blunt, ‘she's talking about a hairpiece, you know, the sort you pin onto your own hair? She was telling us about it the other day.'

‘Oh,' Dad replies. ‘What's wrong with her own bleedin hair?' Mum looks at me and rolls her eyes.

‘There's nothing wrong with her hair Dad, it's just a fashion thing. A lot of young girls wear them. Dad sniffs and tuts and begins to mumble.

‘Dunno what's wrong with em all, fake hair, fake eyelashes, fake nails, fake ti…,' he looks at Mum and I and trails off for a moment. ‘Blady mad I reckon, blady mad the blady lot of em. Why can't they just be happy with what they got that's what I say? And madam ere ain't mach betta,' he says pointing to Maisy who has just walked into the kitchen. ‘You look like you're in bleedin mournin gal. Why dun cha put a bit o bleedin colour into yer life?' Maisy glares at Dad, forcing her closed, tight lips upwards into a short sarcastic smile.

‘
I'm going out,' she states.

I tell her briefly of our plans to holiday in Cornwall for a week next month and ask her if she'd like to join us. Her reply is short and to the point, ‘Yeah, whatevs,' she says shrugging her shoulders. Then, with a slam of the door, she's gone.

What's that you say…thank you? For inviting me and arranging it and paying for it
.
Oh don't mention it. Oh yeah that's right, you didn't!

Cassie is shouting down the stairs – again – her voice laced with panic.

‘STOP Mai … Mania … STOP!!' She crashes down the stairs like some crazy bag lady clutching an assortment of large shopping bags, hand bags and what at first glance looks like the recently hacked scalp of some poor, unsuspecting victim but is in fact her hair piece. She looks at Mum and Dad, only just aware of their presence.

‘Nan, Grandad,' she exclaims, trying to catch her breath before planting a kiss on each of their cheeks. ‘Have to go. Important party you see, and J…' She pauses, her face reddening a little. ‘And err important people,' she continues. ‘Cornwall sick.' She sticks her thumb up. ‘But really have to go.' She blows them both a kiss. ‘Mwah Mwah.' She then casts a quick look in my direction. ‘I'm going to Chelsea's,' she states before careering out of the door. ‘Mai … I mean Mania … wait for me,' she shouts.

We watch Cassie struggle towards Maisy's waiting car. One arm waving frantically like a possessed snake, the other arm weighted down by her many bags. Maisy sits, head above the steering wheel, impatiently revving the accelerator, her expression as dark as her black kholed eyes.

The fifty-second whirlwind that is Cassie has left the building. Silence descends and a few stray tumbleweeds roll along the now deserted landscape. Mum, Dad and Freddy all look at one
another
in disbelief then look across at me.

‘Wine anyone?' Simon says.

CASSIE

The party is full on. The music is like well loud and there's a constant base line vibrating through every piece of furniture and across every surface in the room. I feel a little woozy and lightheaded which I don't really understand coz I haven't really drank anything else since ‘prinks' earlier.

I never want to do prinks again. I was quite happy sipping my glass of Lambrini but then some stupid idiot suggested shots and drinking games. Eeeuuck, Dirty Pint, Arrogance, Beer Pong, and shots? Yuk, just thinking about the burning sensation down my throat makes me shudder. Joe leans across me.

‘Do ya wanna drink?' he asks. I still can't believe he hasn't left my side for most of the night. I feel like I'm on cloud ten, or whatever the saying is.

‘Errrmmm, no thanks,' I say before suddenly changing my mind. ‘Actually yes, can I have some water please?' He looks at me and smirks.

‘Really?' I nod my head. Then a gawjuss smile spreads across his face. ‘Lightweight,' he says as he bends forward to kiss me before heading off in search of drinks.

I look round the huge room that Chelsea's parents call their entertaining area. It's at the back of, slightly set away from, the rest of the house. The house is part of a private housing estate, close to a golf course. Compared to our house it's like massive. Grand I suppose you would call it, but it all just seems a bit too show-offy to me. It almost feels like the house and the people in it are pretending to be much posher than they really are. I can hear Mum now, if she were here, saying something like “the desperate and soulless trying to impress the deluded and barren
with
their misguided aspirations” or some dramatic crap like that.

At least Mum doesn't pretend to be something she's not. I look across at Chelsea's Mum and for all her tanned, shiny, wrinkleless face, especially her forehead (fillers and botox probably), she still doesn't look any younger or better than Mum. More glamorous maybe but at least Mum is honest in her dullness. At least Mum smiles. Chelsea's Mum never seems to smile, she always looks pouty and stares at everyone in that sort of critical way that she thinks all her money allows her to.