Love and Devotion (9 page)

That was when Gemma had decided she’d had enough. She wasn’t going to stick around while PC Plod, as her father called Steve, banged on about the teenagers of today. She’d tried to signal to Suzie to make her escape with her, but Mum had stepped in. ‘Oh, no you don’t, you stay right where you are. Gemma, go and do your unpacking.’

Bugger the unpacking, thought Gemma, as she continued to lie on her bed. She was knackered and didn’t have any intention of moving for the next hour. The journey back from Paris, which should only have taken a few hours had been a total nightmare. French baggage-handlers had been on a twenty-four-hour strike. Or had it been traffic controllers? Either way it delayed them getting home by more than six hours. Mum had been all for getting the Eurostar and then the train up to Crewe, but Steve, in one of his I‘ve-paid-for-this-we’ll-bloody-well-stick-it-out moods, wouldn’t listen. She’d left them to their bickering and went off to find something to eat.

Looking at her watch, she wondered what time supper would be. Maybe she’d pass on it this evening. She could wander into town and get something from the chip shop. In fact, a bag of proper chips swimming in vinegar would be just the job after all that French food. Using the remote control, she turned up the volume on Radiohead’s
OK Computer
and drowned out the argument still going on downstairs. She closed her eyes, imagining herself back at Glastonbury, where she’d gone earlier in the summer with a bunch of friends when their AS exams were over. She hadn’t really fancied lolloping around in the mud, but seeing as Radiohead were playing, she reckoned she could rough it for a couple of days. It had been the perfect wind-up for Steve. For an ex-policeman, a music festival was the ultimate social evil. The amount of drugs awareness lectures he’d subjected her to was a criminal act in itself. Wake up and smell the coffee, Stevie Boy! She didn’t need to go all the way to Glastonbury to find a supplier. She could do that at school. Or here in Maywood. But the festival had been cool. The sun had shone and the bands had been great. She and Fay had shared their tent with Gus and it had been a right laugh the three of them trying to sleep together. Not that she’d told Mum and Steve about Gus sleeping with her and Fay. That would have brought on a heart attack for them both. It had been a shame that Gemma’s best friend hadn’t been able to join them, but Yasmin came from a strict Muslim family and Mr and Mrs Patel were very protective of their only daughter.

She closed her eyes and lost herself in the music. It was good to be home. The last two weeks had been exhausting. As part of the student exchange system the school ran, she’d been staying with the Leon family in Paris. In theory, Veronique Leon would be coming to stay with them next summer, but Gemma wasn’t so sure she’d actually come. Veronique had been an all-round loser and way too serious. She hardly ever wanted to go out and only wanted Gemma there to improve her English. Okay, so that was the point of the exercise, but how school had reached the conclusion that they’d have anything in common was a mystery to Gemma. It hadn’t been all bad: Veronique’s nineteen-year-old brother, Marcel, had more than made up for any inadequacy on his sister’s behalf. Home from university, and with his own transport - a noisy, back-firing motorbike - Marcel had offered to take her out. They’d gone to the cinemas, they’d sat around in smoky bars and cafés and one night they’d gone to a party and didn’t come home until seven in the morning, having spent the last two hours lying on the dewy grass in the nearby park, watching the sun come up. Mum and Steve would have gone mad if they’d known.

But not half as mad as if they knew what else she’d been doing. Marcel had made it pretty obvious that he wanted to go to bed with her, and deciding that she quite fancied him, and that she might just as well get the whole virginity thing over and done with, she’d gone along with it. The first time had been the let-down she’d expected. It hadn’t hurt, but then it hadn’t been all that great either. But the second time had been okay. The third and fourth time she began to see what all the fuss was about.

When Mum and Steve had met her at the airport she’d been convinced that they would take one look at her and guess. But she should have known better. They were so cross - they’d just heard about the strike at the airport - that not even a sticker on her forehead with the words ‘All Shagged Out’ would have made them pay attention.

For some reason she thought of her father and, not having spoken to him for some time, she got off the bed, turned down the volume on
Karma Police
and dug around in her rucksack for her mobile. The one thing you could count on with Dad was that he always had time for you. She’d phoned him once when he was in the middle of bidding at an auction; he’d kept chatting with her and only asked her to hold on when the bidding got really serious.

Within seconds he answered. ‘Hi Bobtail,’ he said, ‘how was France? Have you brought me back a present? A pretty little Lalique bowl would be nice.’

‘I’ve got you a bottle of wine and a T-shirt with
Je Suis un Rockstar
on it.’

‘Sweetkins, you shouldn’t have.’

‘I know, but I’m like that. All heart.’

‘So come on, tell me all about the trip. How was chez Leon? Did they treat you well? Did you go up the Eiffel Tower? Have you come back stinking of Gauloise and Camel cigarettes and with a liking for incomprehensible black and white films shot from arty angles?’

‘Easy there, Dad. You’ve got to handle those stereotypes with care. How about I come round and see the new house and tell you all about it?’

‘When do you want to come?’

‘Now would be great but I don’t think Mum would appreciate driving me anywhere tonight.’

‘Tired after her romantic trip away with PC Plod, is she? That’ll teach her.’

‘No, it’s got nothing to do with that; it’s Steve’s car.’ She started to tell her father about Suzie being in trouble.

‘Damn!’ he interrupted her. ‘I knew we wouldn’t get away with it.’

‘You knew?’

‘Yes. Your sister asked me to lend her the money to get it put right and, thinking I could do better than that, I stepped in and organised for it to be fixed. Trouble was, the only garage that could do the job at such short notice wasn’t exactly the best. On a scale of one to ten, how mad is Steve?’

‘How would you rate six inches off the ground with incandescent rage?’

‘Highly amusing if I didn’t feel so sorry for Suzie. Does he know I had anything to do with it?’

‘No. Suzie hasn’t said anything. Well, not to my knowledge. But then I’ve been up here in my bedroom for the last half-hour, so for all I know, he might have got the thumbscrews out by now and be extracting a full confession.’

‘Sounds like Suzie needs a good defence lawyer. Shall I just happen to be passing and call in?’

 

With the second load of holiday washing now in the machine, Maxine was staring into the freezer hoping for inspiration. It was the worst thing about coming home after a holiday - trying to summon up the enthusiasm to cook again. More often than not Steve cooked, but tonight he wasn’t capable of boiling an egg. He was currently upstairs in the shower, trying to calm down. Maxine had never seen him so furious, and frankly, she didn’t blame him. If Suzie had bumped
her
new car she’d be hopping mad. What the hell had Suzie been playing at? If it wasn’t one thing with those girls, it was another.

And the shame of it was, she and Steve hadn’t managed to get a week away together - just the two of them — in ages, and when they did manage it, it was ruined. You had to wonder if it was worth the effort. Perhaps they should have taken a week off work and just stayed at home. That way Suzie wouldn’t have dreamt of borrowing a car she had absolutely no right to touch.

Paris had been Steve’s idea. He’d wanted to celebrate their fifth wedding anniversary by doing something special, and when Gemma had come home from school with the letter about the lower-sixth French student exchange system, he had suddenly fancied France for himself, particularly Paris. ‘We could treat ourselves to a decent hotel and really take our time exploring,’ he said. ‘It could be a second honeymoon for us.’

‘But I’ve already had a second one,’ she’d said, ‘when I married you.’

‘Yes, but did the first one really count?’

Steve didn’t often badmouth Will - that was her job, especially if Will had been irritatingly stubborn over something - but she supposed that occasionally it was natural that Husband Number Two would feel the need to check his stock against that of Husband Number One. Not that he needed to worry. Will didn’t compare at all. Steve was everything Will could never be. He was dependable, solid, hardworking, ambitious, organised and most importantly, all grown up. When Steve said he’d organise something he did it by the book and you could be sure it would happen. There were no embarrassing surprises or disappointments. If Will had suggested a trip to Paris it would probably turn out to be a long weekend to EuroDisney with Big Macs thrown in. Her idea of hell.

It transpired that the only week she and Steve could both get away coincided with Gemma’s trip to Paris. ‘I might know you’d find some way to keep an eye on me,’ Gemma had said.

‘Paris is a big city,’ Maxine had mollified her, ‘quite large enough for us to avoid bumping into each other.’

‘I certainly hope so.’

As tempting as it was to look up Monsieur and Madame Leon in Paris and introduce themselves, they stuck to the arrangement that they would meet at Charles de Gaulle airport at the agreed time. It was then, when they discovered there was a strike on, that all the pleasure of the holiday started to fade away.

Maxine sighed, and deciding on chicken Kiev for supper, she closed the freezer door. After putting the unappetising lumps of breaded chicken into a dish and shoving them into the oven, she went over to the wine rack. A very large glass of wine was just what was needed. She had the cork almost out when the doorbell rang. If it was one of the girls’ friends, a Jehovah’s Witness or a double-glazing man, they were in for short shrift. She flung the door back in a way guaranteed to see them off.

‘Oh, it’s you.’

‘Bonjour, ma cherie! Is that the pungent smell of a ripe Brie fresh from its travels across the channel? Or is it the smell of a daughter being roasted on the spit?’

Maxine frowned. ‘It’s really not a good time for one of your tiresome, not to say cryptic, stand-up routines, Will. I’m tired and likely to attack at the slightest provocation.’

From behind Maxine came the thundering of feet. ‘Hey Dad, good to see you!’

‘Wow! Look at you, Gemma, you’re positively glowing. France obviously suited you.’

Maxine’s head was beginning to ache. ‘Okay, Will,’ she conceded, stepping back to let him in. ‘You’ve got twenty minutes, then our supper’s ready.’

 

 

 

 

Will followed Maxine and Gemma through to the kitchen, glancing left and right, an imaginary rifle cocked and ready to go.
Come on you bastard! Where’re you hiding? Come out and show yourself, you snivelling excuse of a man. I’ll teach you to pick on one of my daughters!

‘Hello, Will, what are you doing here?’

Will spun round. He fired and blew a hole clean through Steve’s head.
Boom! Job done.

What Maxine saw in Steve was another of life’s great mysteries. Okay, the man was seriously good for a few quid, but surely looks and personality had to count for something? As far as Will was concerned, Steve was too short, too ugly, too old, too hairy and much too successful. Five years ago, Steve had taken early retirement from being a desk jockey for the police force. He’d worked his way up to being a peaked-cap and gold-braid type of copper, where the only dangerous action he saw was the occasional paper cut. Then he started his own security firm, installing burglar alarms and CCTV systems. Will didn’t know the exact figures involved, but he didn’t need to be a mathematical genius to work out that business was booming - the prestigious double-fronted Victorian house opposite the park and the expensive top-of-the-range Jag (slightly damaged) told its own story. Combine that with Maxine’s earnings from Stone’s Auctioneers, which she now ran, and they were fairly rolling in it. Like a couple of porkers in mud.

Expert these days at keeping the animosity out of his voice and sounding sufficiently blokey, Will turned up the charm ready to smooth the waters. ‘Hi, Steve. Good holiday?’

‘Yes, but I have to tell you I’m not at all pleased with Suzie, she’s — ’

He was interrupted by the girl herself coming into the kitchen. ‘Hey, Dad, I didn’t know you were here.’ She came over and planted a kiss on his cheek. He put his arm round her, and with Gemma standing the other side of him, it seemed the perfect moment to tell Steve the awful truth.

‘Steve,’ he said, ‘I’ve got something to say. You won’t like it, and I’m ashamed of myself for being such a coward, but ...’ he lowered his gaze to emphasise just how pitifully sorry he was, ‘well, the thing is, I reversed into your car when you were away and — ’

‘But Dad — ’

He tightened his hold on Suzie. ‘It’s okay, you don’t need to cover for me any more, Suzie. I should never have got you to lie on my behalf. I don’t know what I was thinking of.’ He returned his gaze to Steve, noting Maxine’s flinty look of suspicion. ‘I’m really sorry, Steve. I tried my best to get it fixed before you came home, but if you want to get it done properly, just send me the bill.’ The feeble bleating now over, Will held out his hand. ‘No hard feelings I hope?’
Yes! An upbeat finale. Performance over. I thank you!

 

It was anyone’s guess how much he’d be down on the deal by the time Steve had shopped around to find the most expensive garage to exact his revenge, but Will didn’t care. It had been pretty dumb of Suzie to borrow the wretched car in the first place, but he’d be damned before he’d stand back and let Steve punish her. And to hell with what any textbook said about step-children needing to respect their step-fathers. Baloney with knobs on! They were his children, not Steve’s. End of story.