Boy Trouble (7 page)

“I’m not surprised you’re upset,” Clover says. “What a witch! But she’s such a control freak. Wait till the puppy poops all over her precious lawn and digs up her flower beds. And eats all the gold tassels on the end of her curtains. She’ll probably beg you to take him away then.”

“Dave has allergies,” I remind her. “We can’t have any pets.”

“Sorry, I forgot. Bummer.” She pushes my hair back off my face, her hand cool against my hot cheek. “Look, Beanie, your dad’s with Shelly now and you’ll just have to accept that, even if she is a bit of a ditz. But I’m sorry about the puppy thing. Justin.” She shakes her head. “Poor dog. What breed? Another Lab?”

When we were all living together – me, Mum and Dad – we had a black Labrador called Timmy. He died three days after Mum and Dad told me they were separating. Great timing.

“I never asked,” I say.

Clover walks over to my chest of drawers and pokes around in my make-up bag. “What are you doing on Saturday morning?” She picks up my new Juicy Tube and tries it out.

“Nothing, why?”

“I’m taking you shopping, that’s why.” She puts the lip gloss back and smacks her lips together. “Mmm, watermelon, delish.”

I manage a smile. Shopping with Clover is always fun.

“That’s better,” she says. “You have a lovely smile, Beans. You should use it more often.”

“Clover! You sound just like Mum.”

Clover frowns. “Can’t be helped, I guess. We are sisters.” She jumps on to the bed and throws her arms round me, hugging me tight.

“Get off, you mentaller.” I laugh and swat her away as she pulls up my T-shirt and blows a sticky lip gloss raspberry on my stomach.

It’s hard to be in a bad mood with Clover around.

By
Saturday morning I can’t wait to get out of the house. I put on some music while I’m packing my bag for Dad’s place and Evie starts crying.

“Turn that down, Amy!” Mum yells up the stairs. “I’ve just put the baby down for her nap.” Then Evie really starts to bawl.

Dave stomps up the stairs, muttering under his breath, “Amy, have you no brain?”

I stick my head out of my room. “I didn’t do it on purpose.”

“I’ll have to take her for a walk now.” He rakes his hands through his hair. I feel a little sorry for him, he looks wrecked. There are two dark, cup-like hollows under his eyes, like he’s been in a concentration camp.

We’ve been doing World War Two in school and it’s shocking stuff. Miss Ireland, our history teacher, invited this old Jewish lady, Mrs Harris, in to talk to us. Mrs Harris hadn’t been in a concentration camp herself – she’d managed to escape with her dad before she had been found. They’d travelled to London and then to Ireland. But she had lost a lot of her family in Auschwitz, a camp in Poland. She was so good at telling stories she made it all come alive. She showed us slides of some of the camps and also a few old grainy black and white photographs of her mum and her sister, Rebecca, who had been killed in a camp. Makes you think.

“I thought you were on nights,” I say to Dave.

“I am. But your mum needs help.”

I feel bad. When he’s on nights he doesn’t get home till seven. It’s now ten so he’s only had three hours’ sleep, tops.

I sigh. “I’ll take her for a walk. In fact, if Clover doesn’t mind, we can probably take Evie shopping with us.”

His eyes light up. “That’d be brilliant. Thanks, Amy.” He steps towards me, arms out, like he wants to hug me, but I back away.

“Give me five minutes,” I tell him.

As we walk down the road towards Dun Laoghaire town centre, Clover insists on pushing the buggy. It’s an old black and grey Mamas & Papas thing Dave found on eBay. It was second hand when Alex had it, and it’s even more battered now. I wanted them to get a red Bugaboo for Evie, like you see the cool mums and dads pushing down the pier, but Dave’s really into recycling and said the old buggy was grand. Grand for him maybe. I think Mum was a bit disappointed – she likes the Bugaboos too – but she said Dave was right, it was a waste of money when we had a perfectly good one already.

“She’s like a little doll,” Clover says, smiling down at Evie.

“When she’s not crying,” I point out. “Let’s hope she stays asleep or we’ll be thrown out of all the shops for noise pollution. She’s like a fire alarm when she gets going.”

Clover starts to look concerned.

I say, “Don’t worry, she’ll stay asleep as long as we keep moving.”

Clover stops outside a small shop squeezed in beside a flower shop and Dunne’s Stores. “Here we are,” she announces with a wave of her hand. “Una’s.”

I stare in the pink-framed window. It doesn’t look very promising. There’s a mannequin dressed in the kind of tent-like nightie a granny would wear: plain white brushed cotton with a pink ribbon threaded round the top like a necklace. Beside it is a fan of plain white Sloggi knickers and two matching sensible white lacy bras – the kind my mum usually wears – displayed on clear plastic headless frames. There’s even a pair of stripy blue and white woolly bed socks.

Clover laughs. “OK, so the window isn’t very inspiring. But Una really knows her stuff.” She nods at the door. “Can you get that for me?”

Before I have a chance, a tiny woman appears in front of us and whisks open the door. She’s obviously stronger than she looks. She’s wearing a cream rollneck jumper, a tweedy brown skirt, and she has a tape measure hanging round her neck like a scarf. Her own breasts stick out of her jumper like two jelly moulds and I try not to stare. They’re pretty impressive.

“Hello, Clover,” she says. “What a pleasure. And who’s this young lady?” She smiles at me and her primrose blue eyes twinkle through her gold-rimmed glasses. She must be at least seventy.

“This is my niece Amy,” says Clover. “And this is my other niece Evie.” She points into the pram. Una has a quick look at Evie but doesn’t seem all that interested, which is refreshing. Normally people go all gooey over Evie, especially old ladies.

“So what can I do for you today?” says Una. “I have some gorgeous new black Triumph push-up bras.”

“I’m looking for something for Amy,” says Clover. “Something to give her a bit of a shape.”

I can feel my face go bright red and I stare at Evie who is starting to stir.

When I look up, Una is giving me a bright, friendly smile. “First let’s get you into the fitting room and see what size you are.” She whips the measuring tape from her neck and walks briskly towards the chintz-curtained cubicle at the back of the room.

My heart sinks into my boots. “Does she have to measure me?” I whisper to Clover.

“She’ll do it over your top,” Clover says. “Don’t worry, Beanie, you don’t have to strip.”

Evie starts to mew like a kitten and Clover wheels the buggy backwards and forwards. She nudges me with her shoulder. “Go on.”

Clover’s right, it’s fine. I put my arms out straight, making a T-shape, then Una measures me outside my top. It only takes a few seconds and I hardly even feel the tape measure. “32A,” she says confidently. “What age are you, dear?”

“Thirteen.”

“A very common size for your age. And we have lots of lovely bras that’ll fit you. Follow me.”

“She’s a 32A,” Una tells Clover.

Clover nods. “Thought as much.”

Una potters around the shop, picking out bras for me.

“Do you mind,” I hiss at Clover while Una’s distracted. “Stop discussing my bra size.”

Clover ruffles my hair. “You are funny, Beanie. I’m a 34B myself. Sometimes a C depending on the make of bra. I started off as a 32AA. Even smaller than you.”

“Really?” I ask, starting to feel a little better. “A” sounds so teeny. But “AA” is even smaller.

“Sure.”

Una hands me five bras. “Try these on,” she says. “See which ones you like best. We have matching briefs too. All kinds of styles.”

Apart from once when Una throws back the curtain and checks she’s got the sizing right by gently tugging at the sides and adjusting the straps a little, I’m left alone to try on the bras. The first one is a plain white padded one which doesn’t look like much, but when on it gives me a lovely curvy shape and is dead comfortable. I wince when I see the price tag, thirty euros.

The second is adorable and white with delicate pale red flowery embroidery. It’s not quite as comfortable as the first one, but it’s the kind you’d be proud to show off in the changing-rooms. Mills would love it; she’s a real girlie-girl. The third and fourth are similar to the first: both plain white, one with padding, the other without. Nothing special. But the fifth takes my breath away. I’d never pick it out myself: sky blue lace with subtle, dark pink embroidery along the scalloped edges. It’s heavenly, a really special bra.

“How are you getting on, Beanie?” Clover says from outside the curtain. “Can I have a peek?”

I’m about to say “No!” when I change my mind. I stand up straight, push my shoulders back and say “All right.” Clover pokes her head through the curtain and gives me a grin. “Looking good, Beanie. See, I told you a decent bra makes all the difference. Pick your fave three. And hurry up, Evie’s starting to cry.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yep. Saffy paid me extra for that revenge article. Besides, I owe you for all your help with the agony aunt page.”

Three! I’m in bra heaven. Clover’s the best.

Walking back home, I swing the flesh pink Una’s bag by my side. I chose the white one with the red flowers, the sky blue lacy one and the comfortable white one, and Clover insisted on buying the matching lacy mini-shorts to go with the first two. She said no to the thongs. She said Sylvie would have a fit. She’s probably right. I’m not all that keen on thongs anyway, they’re so uncomfortable and who wants to show off their naked bum cheeks? Apart from Sophie and the D4s of course.

I haven’t felt so good in a long time. “Thanks, Clover,” I say as she hands Evie over at the front door. She has to meet Ryan in town for lunch and she’s late, as usual. “You’re the best.”

“Hey, Beanie, can I ring you later? I still need advice on those letters.”

“No problem. I’ll be at Dad’s, ring my mobile.”

“Coola boola, see ya.” She kisses her fingers and blows them at me as she dashes towards the gate.

It’s
way past eleven but I can’t sleep. My mind’s hopping around like the Easter bunny. I’m lying in bed at Dad’s wondering what I’ve done to deserve such a cruddy life. I’m trying not to feel sorry for myself but it’s hard.

I’ll rewind. We arrived at Dad’s at four. We’d had to stop along the quays because Evie had filled the car with a horrible eggy stench and Dave had had to change her nappy on the back seat. Mum had needed a rest so she’d stayed at home, and Dave had taken Alex and Evie in the car with us. Big mistake. Alex had cried for half an hour solid before I’d jammed a bottle of milk in his mouth and he’d finally fallen asleep. Evie’d slept for the first half an hour and then she’d decided to stink out the car.

Her bum is cracked and red raw from terrible nappy rash so you have to change her instantly, otherwise her skin can get infected from the acidy poo. Sometimes I wish I didn’t know so much about gross things like nappy rash. Sometimes I wish Mum hadn’t had the babies. I know it’s mean and selfish, but I can’t help how I feel. They’re so much work. But at least I’m free of all that at Dad’s.

Or so I’d thought. You see, Dad had an announcement.

After I’d dumped my bag in my room, he brought me out to the back garden to meet Justin. Shelly was sitting on one of their
très
glam wooden garden chairs with its matching white padded cushion, like something from the poolside in an American movie, and she jumped up as soon as she saw me. She looked at Dad and gave him this funny look and Dad shook his head a bit. I knew something was up. Then this puppy came flying over and jumped up, putting his little paws on my thighs. He was really cute, a springer spaniel, with lots of caramel-coloured fluffy fur.

“We have something to tell you,” Dad said, holding the back of one of the chairs. “Sit down, Amy.”

He sounded all serious so I sat down without a word. Shelly’s hands were shaking for some reason, which was a bit odd: she wasn’t usually the nervous type. She held Justin’s collar with her hand and then pulled him on to her knee. But he was too skittish so she let him down again and he went tearing around the garden. She frowned and brushed down her white jeans. I was delighted to see he’d left muddy brown marks behind him. I looked up at Dad and he had this strange expression on his face, kind of worried but happy. And then it came to me. They were getting married. I felt hollow.