Drama Queen (10 page)

I glanced at Mum. She was wearing that saggy cardie as usual. And those terrible leggings. And her glasses had slipped down on her nose. Love goddess NOT. Perhaps I could get her to stop wearing her specs. She didn't really need them. Well, perhaps for reading. But she could see perfectly well without them for most things. And once the specs were off I
could maybe get her to use some eye make-up. She had nice eyes – she ought to make the most of them.

It was parents' evening at school the coming Thursday. And it occurred to me that it was the one time when Mum and Dad actually had to meet up. This would be a good opportunity to raise Mum's profile in Dad's eyes. But how? Should I burn the saggy cardie? Could I force her into heels?

I decided to try the slow drip-feed brain-washing approach. While clearing up the meal later that night, I mentioned, ‘You know it's parent-teacher night on Thursday?'

‘Is it? Again?'

‘I put it in your diary.' She was getting incredibly forgetful these days.

‘Oh right. Better remind your father.'

‘I already have.'

There was a pause while she filled the washing-up bowl with new water.

‘What were you thinking of wearing?' I asked.

‘No idea. Why?'

‘It'd be nice if you could look nice, that's all.'

‘Can't you think of a more inspired adjective?'

‘Well, other people's mothers make an effort.'

‘I'll think about it.'

 

On Monday I happened to be taking a short cut home through Braithwaites, our local department store, when I was approached by a girl handing out leaflets for a ‘Free Skincare and Make-up Consultation'. They were giving away a load of cosmetics if you took it up. And it was a really expensive brand. Cool! I headed over to the counter to check it out.

Under a banner saying: ‘Colour your World', a woman in a crisp white overall had a customer pinned down on a swivel chair. I hovered. She was going the whole hog with the blusher …

As she turned to load her brush with more powder she caught sight of me. ‘Can I help you?'

Suddenly, I was terribly aware of standing there in my school uniform. The whole place felt all glossy and perfumy and her counter was covered with photos of perfectly made-up models who all seemed to be staring disdainfully at me – in fact, straight at my shiny nose. I could feel my open pores gaping like craters.

‘Umm … could I book a consultation, please?'

‘I'll be with you in a minute,' she said with a frown. She returned to her client and started telling her how wonderful she looked. The lady who'd been
given the make-over seemed really pleased with the end result – at any rate, she was flourishing her credit card. I watched as a carrier was filled with mega-bucks worth of glossy packages.

The consultant then set about tidying up her brushes, totally ignoring me. I think she hoped I was going to give up and walk away, which was understandable. Currently dressed, I didn't look like the kind of person she'd want to have associated with her brand.

I coughed politely.

‘So what can I do for you?' she said with a forced smile.

‘I'd like a consultation, please.'

‘I really don't know if I can fit you in.'

‘It's not for me. It's for my mother.'

This seemed to have a reassuring effect on her. ‘Oh, that's nice. Surprise treat, is it?'

‘Kind of.'

She brought out her appointments book. After a bit of haggling about times. I managed to book Mum in for the last session of the actual day on which we were due to have our parent-teacher meeting. Nice one.

 

I thought I'd be up against some resistance when I mentioned the make-over to Mum.

‘Thursday. But that's the night we've got to be at school,' she pointed out.

‘It's late night shopping at Braithwaites. You've got time for the make-over first.'

‘Oh yes, I suppose I have,' she said, looking vague. And then she smiled. ‘Why not?'

That Thursday evening when I got home from school, I found Mum had made an effort. She'd put on her new cream polo sweater and her one pair of trousers that actually fitted, with boots that had enough heel to give her some height. She came to look at her reflection in the long hall mirror. She'd had a haircut that day and her hair was all smooth and blow-dried and shiny. In fact, she looked pretty good.

‘Oh, I don't really want to bother with this stupid make-over,' she said.

‘But you have to. I've booked it. Look, it says you have to ring to cancel the appointment. It's too late now.' I wasn't going to let her back out while I was doing so well.

So we drove to Braithwaites. I practically frogmarched her to the make-over counter. The
consultation started with a question and answer session. Mum kept on giving me these ‘looks' over the woman's shoulder. It seemed Mum didn't cleanse, she didn't tone and she'd never used a night cream. The woman seemed surprised that Mum still had a
face
. When it came to ‘analysing your make-up routine' it was even more humiliating. Mum had no idea of her skin type, she didn't know what her skin tone was and she'd last bought a lipstick five years ago.

The woman sighed in disbelief and tied a kind of white plastic bib thing round Mum's neck. I reckoned she should have been pleased. Mum was positively virgin territory as far as a make-over was concerned.

Anyway, Mum gave the consultant a free hand. Actually, she didn't have much alternative because she had to take her glasses off, so she couldn't see what the woman was up to.

I watched in silence as Mum's familiar features disappeared and were gradually replaced by a stranger's mask. Her eyelashes were standing out individually like spider legs and her lips were so glossy they looked as if they'd slid out of
Hello!
magazine. I looked at her doubtfully. Was this the kind of look men went for? Or, more importantly, was it going to impress Dad?

‘There you go,' said the consultant and whipped the bib off. She seemed satisfied with the result. She started reeling off a list of compliments. Admittedly they sounded a bit like what she'd said to the other woman. Mum nodded vaguely and groped in her handbag for her glasses. As usual, she couldn't locate them.

At that moment a bell went off to announce that Braithwaites was about to close. This was the cue for the make-over woman to go into a high-speed, hardsell on all the products she'd used. Mum tentatively enquired as to the price of a lipstick. Her eyes met mine in horror when she heard the answer. She backed down hurriedly to a kohl eye pencil and was about to fork out for that when luckily we ran out of time.

The counters were being covered with dust-cloths. So we managed to escape with our tiny gift bag of free cosmetics, containing, I established later, round about enough to make up a very small mouse.

‘I had no idea a lipstick could cost that much,' said Mum when we were back in the car, heading towards school.

‘It's a very good brand.'

‘It must be. But fancy paying that for a
lipstick
.
Anyway, what are we talking about? I don't wear lipstick.'

‘Maybe you should,' I said meaningfully.

We'd stopped at some lights. Mum had at last located her glasses and she swivelled the rear view mirror so that she could take a look at herself.

‘Oh my God!' she said. ‘Jessica, how could you let her do this to me? What
do
I look like?'

‘You look fine. You look great.'

She was groping in her bag for a tissue.

‘Leave it. You'll smudge everything.'

We continued on our way with Mum grumbling and moaning.

‘What does it matter anyway,' I said. ‘It's only school.'

As we parked in the school car park there was an explosive farty noise behind us. O-m-G. It was Dad on his new Harley.

He climbed off. He was dressed from head to foot in biker's black leatherwear – he even had on one of those round retro cycle helmets. He raised a hand in greeting. He looked just like a Michelin man in negative.

Mum didn't recognise him for a moment. And then as he approached she muttered, ‘Oh my
goodness, it's your father. What does he think he looks like?'

‘It's for the bike,' I said.

‘I should think it is.' Mum eyed the bike in silent hostility. Dad turned and gave it an affectionate pat as if it were a horse or something. ‘Fancy coming to a parents' evening dressed like that,' said Mum in an undertone.

Things weren't going at all the way I'd planned. I had one parent looking really good, i.e. Mum après make-over plus cream sweater plus nice trousers … And the other one looking like an overweight bikerboy. I mean, I wished Mum had never made the effort. Now they were even more out of balance than ever.

M + (amo + cs + nt) > D + (ow bb)
Mega Mismatch

Dad unstrapped the helmet. I could tell he thought he looked really cool. But actually he was red in the face and his hair was all over the place.

‘Hello there,' he said, rapidly taking in Mum's new glossy image. ‘You're looking, er …
well
.'

He was impressed. I could tell. He hadn't seen
Mum looking like that for years. In fact, not ever. There was that awful pause when any normal couple would have given each other a peck on the cheek. Ever since they'd broken up they always looked as if they were about to – and then didn't.

‘Umm, we'd better hurry,' I said, to break the ice. ‘It's nearly seven-thirty.'

‘Sure thing. Hello, Poppet,' he said, giving me a hug. ‘Better find out what you've been up to, eh?'

Inside the school, the hall was seething with parents. The teachers had set themselves up behind desks armed with loose-leaf files full of lists of marks. I used my usual tactic which was to steer Mum and Dad to the teachers whose subjects I was best at, while they were fully focused. We could deal with things like maths and chemistry later on when their attention was waning.

So we started with Mr Williams. I was a bit worried about the Forest Vale encounter. I mean, Mr Williams said he wouldn't tell, but you could never totally rely on adults when they got together. But he seemed to have his thoughts elsewhere. He took one look at Mum and did a double-take. I must admit, under the bright school lights she did
look rather like a Barbie doll.

He hurriedly glanced back at his file notes and started running a pen down his list of marks. He seemed unusually flustered. His eyes kept resting uneasily on Dad's leatherwear. I felt really embarrassed. I mean, most people's fathers had come straight from work and were in suits and things. Dad looked as if he was about to produce a bike chain out of his pocket and attack someone. All this was bound to confirm in Mr Williams's mind that I was a total drop out. No wonder I hung around in bars.

Mr Williams cleared his throat. ‘Ah, Jessica. Now, let's see. Hmm.' And then he had the cheek to say that my term's average was somewhat disappointing. It worked out at a D. A
D
? I never get a D for English. English is my best subject.

‘But I thought I'd get at least a B, Mr Williams.'

‘Well, I was rather surprised. Now, what happened? Umm, yes. I think it was the
Pygmalion
coursework that brought your average down,' he said.

‘But Mr Williams, I was really proud of that essay.'

‘What was wrong with it?' asked Dad supportively.

Mr Williams shuffled through his papers and brought out some pages that I recognised as my essay. There was an awful lot of his red ink writing down the side.

‘Uh huh. Yes. You were asked to comment on the relationship between Professor Higgins and Eliza …' he started.

‘Which I did,' I protested. ‘Anyone could see that Eliza and Professor Higgins should end up married in the end. They were like
made
for each other …'

‘So why don't you think Bernard Shaw ended the play that way?' asked Mr Williams.

‘I don't know. I think he got it wrong. The offer to teach her to talk properly and everything was just because the guy
fancied her like mad
. The elocution lessons were quite obviously an excuse. He just wanted her to stay over at his place …'

‘Don't you think that maybe Shaw was making more of a social comment?'

‘But my ending's so much better,' I protested.

Mr Williams sighed. ‘“
Eliza, be a doll
” – it's hardly Bernard Shaw now, is it?'

I could see Mum's chin wobble, the way it did when she was about to crack up. Her eyes briefly met Mr Williams's. Hang on. This was not in the least funny. That mark was going towards my GCSE coursework. I pointed this out. Dad agreed with me. In fact, he got to his feet and leaned somewhat threateningly towards Mr Williams.

Mr Williams started to gather his papers together and closed his file. He muttered something about not being able to enter into a discussion over coursework marks at an open evening. In fact, he seemed in a hurry to get rid of us. He called the next family up to his desk so we had to move on.

‘That was so unfair,' I said to Mum.

‘He is your teacher, Jessica.'

‘Sounded like Jess had an interesting point to make … ‘ said Dad.

‘But that's not what she was asked to do. The idea of literary criticism—' started Mum.

‘You're taking his side then?' interrupted Dad.

‘I'm not taking anyone's side. You haven't even read the play …'

Suddenly they were back into row mode. This wasn't how the evening was meant to turn out at all.

I steered them over to the history teacher. ‘You're still two assignments behind, Jessica.'

Mum and Dad looked on while I tried to explain that it was merely a problem of time. I mean, history is such a
long
subject. The homework goes on for ever. And it always comes on Thursdays. Don't the teachers know about Thursdays? It's the one nightmare evening of the week because they all want
assignments back on Friday to mark over the weekend. It's as if they each think their subject is the only one. What do they do in that staffroom of theirs? Don't they ever talk to each other?