Girl, 16: Five-Star Fiasco (15 page)

‘You
must
open an account and put it all in the bank!’ scolded Mum. ‘How have you managed to pay for everything?’

‘Don’t worry, Muv, it’s all under control!’ trilled Jess. Clutching the magic envelope to her heart, she bolted back upstairs.

For a moment she hesitated on the landing. Should she text Fred and tell him the good news? The trouble was, she’d been quite hard on him, thinking he’d got the money, and all the time it had been in her bedroom. But then, Fred had been so annoyingly carefree about the whole thing . . . Jess decided to wait.

Carefully she placed the envelope on Mum’s dressing table, because of course she was sharing Mum’s room at the moment. It was hardly the chic lifestyle one hoped for as a teenager, but finding the money had made Jess feel insanely cheerful. Pulling off her uniform, Jess plunged into her mum’s collection of huge soft comfy clothing. Now, at last, she could relax!

She chose some grey joggers which looked as if they’d last been used by the inmate of a fat camp, a big man’s shirt in a faded check, and a very old but comforting fleece with the zip half hanging off – the perfect outfit for her evening of cosy celebration. (Although she still hadn’t sorted the problem of the catering, she was determined to shove it to the back of her mind for a couple of hours. She sometimes thought, in desperation, that if the worst came to the worst they could always order a huge delivery of ready meals and stuff from a supermarket.)

Halfway downstairs, she found a particularly tempting crispy bogey in her left nostril. She had a finger stuffed halfway up her nose and was sauntering down in her hideous garb, looking like something out of a horror movie, when the front door opened and Granny came in. She was always visiting her friend Deborah these days. Maybe Granny could go and stay with her until Dad moved out – then he could have her room.

Granny turned round by the front door and said, ‘Come in, then, dear. Jess’ll be thrilled to see you!’

Jess froze and cringed back up a stair or two. Nobody must see her like this! She had literally never looked so gross. Who on earth . . . ?

Granny looked up the stairs. ‘Ah, hello, love!’ she crooned. ‘Guess who I just met by the front gate?’

Jess braced herself, horrified that anyone was going to see her all dolled up in her mum’s least attractive outfit. The person edged in through the front door. It was Fred.

He looked up with rather less rapture than Romeo gazing up at Juliet’s balcony. It was impossible to read his mind. For a moment Jess felt kind of pinned to the stairs like a smelly old sock on a noticeboard; the fat-camp joggers would look especially horrendous from below.

‘Oh, hi!’ said Jess, trying to sound casual but divine. ‘How was the chess match?’

‘Uh . . . hi,’ replied Fred. ‘Fine. We lost.’

At this moment Dad burst out of the kitchen, looking excited. ‘Fred!’ he exclaimed, charging down the hall and shaking hands ferociously with the poor guy. ‘You must stay to supper! I’ve just made my signature fish pie! Phone home and tell ’em you’ll be late!’

Jess wondered why Fred had come round – presumably it was something to do with the Chaos chaos. She knew he wouldn’t mention anything in front of The Parents about the awful mess they were in. She had to have a private word with him somehow or other, because she was longing to tell him that Dad had found the money – and, of course, she owed Fred a huge apology for thinking he had lost it.

Dad and Fred were enjoying a flamboyant reunion: Dad was leaping about excitedly as if Fred was his son, or possibly stepson, or possibly . . . son-in-law. Fred was goofily gangling about as usual, but he had already been persuaded to part with his coat.

‘OK, then – er, thanks,’ he muttered, looking charmed but awkward.

Dear Fred!
thought Jess. If only she wasn’t bundled up like a street person! Jess slid down the last few stairs with what she hoped was graceful panache, but unfortunately the sleeve of the man’s shirt she was wearing caught on the bottom of the banisters and forced her to leap backwards like a tethered dog with behavioural problems. Then she tried to cover her tracks by performing a kind of comic clowning staggering fit, but when she looked up, she realised that Fred had followed Dad into the kitchen, and her stupid antics had been for the benefit of Mr Nobody.

Chapter 19

‘Come on, Fred – sit here!’ Dad was turning into a manic master of ceremonies, settling Fred down opposite Jess and laying an extra place.

‘Hello, Mrs Jordan,’ said Fred warily. Mum nodded to him, giving a tight little smile. You could see she hated the way this evening was turning into some kind of gala. She was tired – Jess could always tell; there were little shadows at the corners of her eyes. She’d probably had a hard day dealing with shouty lunatics in the library.

‘Right!’ cried Dad with the air of a conjuror. ‘Madeleine, pass me the magic oven gloves!’ Mum obliged, with a weary look.

‘Oooh, lovely!’ said Granny excitedly, rubbing her hands. ‘I love fish pie! Oh, there’s no prawns in it, is there, Tim?’

‘
Are
no prawns, plural,’ Mum corrected her. She didn’t usually comment on Granny’s grammar – it was a sign she was in an irritable state of mind.

‘No prawns, no sharks, no whales and definitely no dolphins!’ Dad promised. He threw the oven door open, bent down and pulled out the fish pie, which was a lovely golden colour and bubbling faintly at the edges.

‘Is there cheese on top, Tim?’ asked Granny.

‘There is cheese on top!’ Dad declared proudly. Then, ridiculously, he started to sing to the tune of some opera or other, ‘
Fish pie! Fish pie! Fish pie! Is there cheese on top? Cheese on top? On top? Oh yes, yes, yes, yes, yes! Tra-la!
’ He was over-compensating for Mum’s gloominess. If only they could both just be normal and boring like other parents. Fred’s dad, for example, would die rather than sing. Jess cringed in embarrassment and was tempted to slide under the table.

Dad picked up the serving spoon and Mum brought a pile of plates over. He had taken his place at the head of the table, where Mum usually sat. Jess felt he shouldn’t have done it. But that was the least of her problems – for a start, she looked grotesque in her joggers and ragged fleece. And secondly, in less than two weeks she was going to have to feed nearly a hundred people . . . but no, she’d promised herself she wouldn’t think about that tonight!

‘I made a salad to go with it,’ said Mum, ‘as fish pie can be a bit fatty.’ Jess wondered wildly if her parents could be persuaded to make a fish pie the size of a double bed and a salad as big as an allotment, enough to feed ninety-two, the Saturday after next.

‘Don’t you worry about fatty food, Mad!’ Dad reassured Mum. He often called her Mad – ironically, really, as Mum had once confided to Jess that living with him had almost driven her stark staring bonkers. ‘Fish oil is good oil – it’s omega three or five or whatever. Good for the heart!’ He patted himself skittishly on the chest.

‘What about the cheese, though?’ nagged Mum.

‘Well, scrape the cheese off and give it to Fred!’ suggested Dad, doling out portions. Even though Jess was technically a bit overweight (she’d done the BMI quiz on the internet and everything), she was still annoyed with Dad for suggesting the extra cheese should go to Fred, not her. Whose dad was he, anyway?

‘Would you like my cheese, Fred?’ asked Mum.

Fred nodded eagerly. ‘Yeah, please!’ he said.

‘Just a very small portion for me, please, Dad!’ pleaded Jess urgently, but a massive slop of pie came her way.

‘You’re not too fat, honeybun!’ Dad assured her, smiling charismatically and flicking a long lock of fair hair out of his eyes. ‘You’re perfect – isn’t she, Fred?’

Fred looked startled and avoided her gaze. ‘Oh, totally!’ he muttered in obvious embarrassment.

‘So, Fred!’ said Granny. ‘What are you two lovebirds doing for Valentine’s?’

Fred gave a kind of horrid twitch, no doubt at the concept of his being part of a Two Lovebirds Situation, but he managed not to gag by keeping his eyes firmly averted from the vast smelly mountain of cellulite, dandruff and bogies that was his beloved girlfriend, Jess.

‘There’s a – uh, the dinner dance thing,’ he growled, as if to show his total indifference to the doomed event.

‘Oh, yes, the dinner dance!’ cooed Granny happily. ‘Grandpa used to take me to dinner dances down at the Royal George Hotel. They had a wonderful buffet there, with seven different kinds of salad!’

‘Wow, Granny!’ said Jess. ‘What sort of dress did you wear?’ Anything to divert attention from the subject of catering. Jess was secretly appalled to hear there could be seven different types of salad, and wondered how many types her customers were expecting.

Just as they were finishing dinner, somebody rang the doorbell.

‘Get that, would you, Jess, love?’ asked Mum.

Jess cringed. ‘But, Mum, I look so gross!’ She pulled disgustedly at her joggers.

‘If Fred doesn’t mind, why should anybody else?’ asked Granny with a naughty wink.

Wearily and apprehensively, Jess dragged herself to the door, pulling down the fleece to try and hide, well, everything. Gingerly, she opened the door. It was Martin.

‘Martin!’ Jess cheered up. Martin’s return was good news: it meant he was still interested in Mum. But he was about to walk into a cosy family dinner with Dad apparently totally back in town. ‘Come in!’ Jess’s mind was like a thunderstorm: black rumbles of dread punctuated by sudden desperate flashing ideas. ‘We’re just in the middle of Dad’s farewell dinner! He’s off to Barcelona in the morning to join his boyfriend – you knew he was gay, didn’t you?’ She was doing her best to reassure him.

Martin nodded slightly awkwardly and stepped inside.

‘How’s Fred?’ he asked, looking down at her with a kindly smile. It was so nice of him to remember Fred’s name.

‘He’s here – you can meet him!’ she said. As he took his coat off, Martin looked towards the kitchen with a tiny, thoughtful frown. Jess wondered if he was nervous about Mum and Dad possibly getting back together again. Well, she had done her best, inventing that reunion with Phil in Barcelona.

Chapter 20