183 Times a Year (21 page)

‘I've never really thought about it,' I reply, suddenly filled
with
excitement. ‘It's just my Mum puts all this pressure on me to get my A Levels so I can go to Uni and …'

Luke cuts me off. ‘You can go to Uni if you complete this course, it's equivalent to three A Levels, 180 UCAS points.'

‘Really? That would be like so aammaaazing to study music, and we could like help each other out, and like perform together. Oh my god,' I gasp. ‘Would we have to perform to like real live people? That would be sooooooooooo like scary, but way better than A Levels.' Luke laughs at me.

‘You do know you're slightly insane right?' he asks.

‘Of course,' I reply, ‘it runs in the family.'

I'm absolutely convinced and I've made up my mind. I
am
going to study music at college. Persuading Mum is going to be the real problem.

LIZZIE

I sigh heavily as I pull up the drive of the house in my car. It's 3pm, twenty-eight degrees outside, and all the curtains are closed. The wheelie bin, now empty, still stands where it did this morning and if I find the house in the same state as it was yesterday I swear I am going to lose it.

Simon's right, it's not good for Cassie to be mooching around doing nothing. It's a breeding ground for hedonistic melancholy. I reach for the door handle, and then step back for a moment. It's been a bad day, my head hurts, my feet ache and I can feel the resentment rising within me.

Take a deep breath and count to ten
.

I rub the back of my neck with my hand then suddenly have the urge to look round. It feels as though someone is behind me but when I look I don't see anyone. I walk towards the end of the driveway then stop to look left and right but see nothing or no one of interest. I shrug my shoulders and continue rubbing
the
back of my neck as I head back up the drive towards the front door.

I take another deep breath, open the door and walk in. The stifled air hits me. It feels like a bloody sauna.

Keep calm Lizzie – keep calm
.

I immediately start pulling apart curtains, releasing blinds and flinging open windows to let in some much needed fresh air. I notice cups and plates dispersed at will or at random around the kitchen, as are various tea or coffee stained spoons. Knives with remnants of butter also lay littered amongst crumb-infested worktops. My anger is rising like bile in my throat.

I walk into the darkened living room to find Cassie ensconced on the sofa. The TV is blaring. She is oblivious to my presence, clearly mesmerised by the threatening looking individual talking, on whichever ridiculously melodramatic soap opera she appears to be watching. She is still wearing the same tee shirt and shorts she slept in and appears to have one false eyelash on and one off. The tightly wound coil suppressing my anger is about to unfurl.

A voice on the TV speaks.
“I'll give you everything you need
(dramatic pause)
to put him away for a very long time”.
The delivery of his words is more pantomime menacing than bona fide villain.

‘Cassie,' I say rather loudly. No response. ‘Cassie,' I say again.

‘Shhhhhhhhhh,' she hisses at me, ‘I'm trying to watch.'

What's to watch? Surely it's the same storyline used again and again, just on a different day with different characters?

‘Don't tell me,' I say, ‘he's her long lost son who's come to her rescue because she is being abused by her new partner and that woman there is his sister, who didn't know she had a brother, which is ironic because she had an affair with an older, married man when she was a bit younger resulting in a son that also had to be given away. Oh, and she's just the nosy neighbour.'

I'm
being flippant of course; making it up as I go along, but Cassie looks at me in utter disbelief, screwing up her nose and opening her mouth – wide.

‘You bloody cow,' she says quite mortified, ‘why would you do that? Why would you spoil the plot like that?'

‘Don't call me a cow,' I reply, trying to stop myself from laughing. ‘I didn't spoil the plot. I was mocking it, making it up for goodness sake. You know my thoughts about these ridiculous soap operas. Drama for drama's sake.'

‘Oh whatever,' Cassie states. ‘I'm going for a bloody shower.'

‘Now just a minute young lady,' I say drawing on the simmering anger that so far I've managed to keep in check. ‘We need to discuss the possibility of you getting a job and your plans for Sixth Form.

‘I've got a job,' Cassie replies very blasé. ‘Well, I've got an interview for a job. Tomorrow. And I'm not going to Sixth Form anymore …'

I raise my eyes. ‘Oh…?' I reply.

This had better be good.

Cassie takes a deep breath. ‘I'm going to college, to study music,' she says.

Do I detect a hint of fear in her voice?

‘With Luke,' she continues. ‘And yes – before you ask – it does carry enough UCAS points to go to Uni.'

I'm impressed. I expected her case against going to Sixth Form to be a quixotic one and the tone she takes with me is not surly or sulky but intrepid.

‘Now if you don't mind,' she continues. ‘I need to have a shower.'

‘Wow, you look amazing babe,' Simon says. His eyes run
roguishly
across me from head to foot in obvious admiration. I am secretly chuffed to bits and my inner voice is whooping and singing in my ear.

Work it girl, work that body.

However, I am, rather childishly, still miffed about our minor heated exchange of words this morning.

‘Thanks,' I reply.

‘And your hair,' Simon continues. ‘It looks, well, it looks great.' ‘Thanks, Maisy did it for me.'

And wasn't that a bolt out of the blue, Maisy offering to do my hair after Cassie refused on the grounds of being “too depressed to help”. I must admit I was a little hesitant at first, thought it was some kind of trick, a way for Maisy to avenge herself on me for my mere presence in her life, but I was pleasantly surprised. She blowdried, back combed and curled my hair to within an inch of its life but the end result was amazing. It was a sort of mother-daughter bonding moment. Well, when I say bonding, what I actually mean is Maisy spoke six words to me instead of the usual three. It was nice though.

The atmosphere between Simon and I in the car is frosty to say the least. He's driving and continues to look straight ahead; I look out of the passenger window.

‘Look,' he says, turning to look at me briefly. ‘I'm sorry about this morning, I didn't mean anything by it.'

‘S'fine,' I respond.

Child
.

He runs an exasperated hand through his hair. ‘Well clearly it isn't.'

‘Let's not talk about it now eh,' I say snapping on the radio, providing an excuse not to talk.

We drive for a while just listening – or at least pretending to – the radio. ‘You okay to drive home if I have drink tonight?' I ask, knowing damn well Simon will concede to my wishes
in
return for a pleasant facade in front of his sleazy, sybarite boss. And I don't mean Andy, who's actually the other MD of the company
and
the only reason Simon puts up with Dean's bullshit. Well, that and the mortgage and three kids to support of course.

‘What? Oh yeah, I suppose so.' I can hear the disappointment in his voice. These work events are always more palatable when one is very inebriated.

Yes!
My inner voice says, punching the air with a fist.

As soon as we arrive I spot Ruby and Andy and make a beeline for them. Thank god they're here. We're probably the four most unpretentious people in the room. Maybe I'm just getting cynical as I get older but I really can't concern myself with bothering about who went where and in what villa on their holidays, what new car they are in extreme debt for and their oh so marvellous recent shopping trips to New York and Milan.

It's all just bollocks, complete and utter bollocks. Consumed with consumerism, pretending to be something they're not just to please Dean, the fat cat boss who espouses morals and virtue but would slit his own mother's throat just to make a profit.

‘Wow, look at you,' Andy says genuinely impressed, ‘you look the best I've seen you look in years.' It's a back-handed compliment but appreciated all the same.

‘Thanks Andy,' I say grinning.

‘Come on,' he continues, ‘give us a twirl.' I am slightly embarrassed but concede attempting a half-hearted pirouette.

‘Leave it to me to bring out your inner goddess,' Ruby says, looking equally, if not more stunning than usual.

‘She does look good doesn't she?' Simon says behind me, placing his hand on my shoulder. My petrified heart softens a little and I look at him and smile.

‘Get the drinks in then,' I say.

The meal is over. The epochal bullshit speech about mutual
respect
and regard for his company and its employees by Dean is done and half the room now seem to be on a mission to get sloshed, including me.

‘Ooooh K C & The Sunshine Band,' I say as one of their songs bellows out across the dance floor. ‘C'mon Rubes, les dans,' I suggest but I'm off before she replies. ‘I love this song,' I shout across the dance floor towards our table. Ruby has joined me. Simon and Andy look on in amusement. I attempt to sing the words to
Give it up,
yelling from the top of my lungs whilst pointing at Simon. He looks round the room nervously then puts his head into his hands. I thrust, gyrate and grind my body whilst my arms flail around at will. I'm pretty confident the stares befalling me throughout the room are indeed looks of admiration at my skilful dance moves.

Eat your heart out Beyoncé!

Then, I catch sight of myself in a mirror. I stop dancing for a moment – shocked at what I've just witnessed.

When did you start dancing like a parent
?
These moves looked so cool in the 1980s.

‘C'monnnn,' Ruby hollers when she realises I've stopped moving.

Oh sod it.

I begin thrusting my booty and propelling my arms in unison with hers. I turn to look at Simon giving him my best, lips puckered, smouldering gaze that, again, when I catch sight of in the mirror, actually looks more like I'm suffering with constipation. I shuffle across the dance floor towards Simon, one hand resting on my swivelling hip, the other outstretched, beckoning him in my best sexy come-hither fashion.

Simon raises his eyebrows and shrugs his shoulders. I continue serenading him.

Well we certainly know where Cassie gets her musical ability from don't we
?

‘
Yep,' I reply out loud. ‘S'meeee!!!' Suddenly Simon is by my side. Clearly, my sensual, rhythmic love dance has won him over.

‘Whooaa, steady there,' he says, grabbing me by the waist before one of my raunchy moves is a move too far and almost sees me colliding with the floor. ‘Who's had too much to drink then?' he continues, holding me safe and strong in his arms as he's always done.

‘Me!' I reply giggling. ‘Haf I tol u laylee that I love you?'

‘I love you too babe,' he replies.

‘I'm sorree if I've erm, hiccup, embaress iss you.'

Simon looks across at Dean who has also hit the dance floor and appears to be as equally deluded as me in what he clearly believes are his own proficient dance moves. He has the substantial build of a rugby player and his violent foot stamping, rhythmic body slapping and strange tongue protrusion suggest he is suitably involved in some kind of pre-match, Maori tribal war dance than at some, slightly upmarket, works do. Simon looks back at me.

‘Oh well,' he laughs and begins grinding his body against mine. ‘If you can't beat em, join em eh?'

Chapter 18

SUMMER HOLIDAY