I Should Be So Lucky (12 page)

‘Spain? Do you like Spain?’ Miles frowned.

‘Oh, Miles, it was just a
what if
!’ She continued, determined not to lose momentum, ‘And then at the end, when Mum’s, you know,
gone
, that is after I’ve also been – possibly, and we all hope it would never come to this – full-time nurse and carer as well, I’m to be turfed out with a third of what it’s worth so you and Kate can divvy up your share?’ Said it, she thought, pleased even through her anger that she’d managed to get out into the open exactly what she meant, for once.

‘Um … well, I’m sure we could come to some arrangement regarding what you’ve invested. A pro rata sort of thing. But don’t you see, we’re only looking out for
you
. Kate and I are concerned that you could do with protecting from yourself, that’s all.’

‘Yes, I see, Miles. It’s OK, I’ve got the gist. I’m so glad you invited me for this lunch and made it so clear that I don’t actually count at all as a full-functioning
grownup
. Now, for pudding I quite fancy the Death by Chocolate. Is that allowed, do you think, or are you going to tell me that I really shouldn’t in case I make myself sick?’

Oh, the cool of post-thunderstorm air. While the atmosphere in the restaurant had been dry and stuffy and blunted every sound beyond the windows, outside a
small
, fierce storm had been and gone, leaving the streets with that wet-dog smell that they get after heavy rain on dust. Viola waited for the bus by the station, gratefully breathing in the soft damp air and wondering what had happened to the concept of a queue, as people milled around under the bus shelter in any old order. You could, she thought, tell the ones who really knew better, because they pretended to be looking at the route map on the pole and then casually forgetting to move away from the spot they fancied. Kate had once said it was getting like the French in ski-lift queues – everybody just pushing ahead and never mind who got there first.

Viola had never tried skiing, but Rachel had been on a school trip when she was thirteen. She’d fallen over badly on the nursery slopes, cut her head and been kept off the piste for two lonely days with suspected concussion. ‘That’s just the sort of thing that would have happened to you, Vee,’ Kate had laughed when she’d seen Rachel with stitches in her forehead. ‘Like mother, like daughter.’ Viola hadn’t seen any trace of a funny side to this and it had left her with a new worry – was Rachel going to be like her? A bit of a disaster area in the luck department? She hoped not – and she was doing her very best to let Rachel out and about freely without fussing over her, though sometimes, when she was with her on the street, it was hard not still to take her hand when they crossed the road, just in case.

‘Mum!’ Rachel and her friend Emmy now pounced on Viola as she waited. The lunch must have taken longer than she’d thought: it had run into school home time. All that time, all that food and nothing sorted. She could just see Miles ganging up with Kate, telling her that it would be all right, he’d get Viola on her own and make her see sense.
Their
sense.

‘Can Em come home with us, Mum? Please? What’s for supper and have we got any crisps and biscuits and that?’ Rachel was post-school ravenous, jumpy and likely to get moody if she didn’t eat soon.

‘Supper … um … I hadn’t really thought. What do you fancy? And yes, of course, Emmy’s always welcome.’

‘You went out for lunch with Miles today, didn’t you? You’ve been eating lots of top stuff and having wine while we had boring beans and chips in the school canteen.
So
, like, jealous!’

‘OK, you choose then – and if you decide on something fairly quick and easy involving pasta, that would help.’ Viola felt tired from the lunch and she was looking forward to a peaceful evening, feet up on the sofa and some unchallenging TV.

The bus arrived and they fought their way on board through those clustered round the stop but disinclined either to get on the bus or to make way for those who wanted to. Rachel and Emmy got seats at the front – Viola was further back. She watched Rachel, trying to see her as a stranger would. She was taller than Emmy,
thinner
, all legs, as if she’d bolted, growth-wise, like a lettuce planted where it got too much sun. Emmy was more compact. Rachel had longer hair, blonde unruly stuff, parted just over her left ear and piled across her head in a wind-blown mess of haphazard backcombing. It was supposed to look, according to Rachel, like bed hair. Not actual just-woken-up morning hair, but just been shagged by your top rock musician or movie star of choice hair. Viola was as sure as any mother could be that Rachel didn’t yet know this look from personal experience. She certainly hoped not – Rachel wouldn’t even be fifteen for another few weeks.

Viola wondered how long Emmy would stay this afternoon – there wasn’t much room in the flat for separate socializing, and although Rachel had the bigger of the two small bedrooms, it wasn’t the most comfortable teen hang-out. Most of her clothes were hooked on to the back of the door, and the ones she was trimming up for Gemma’s stall had ended up draped across Naomi’s old piano in the sitting room. Her school books were piled on the floor and ended up scattered half under her bed.

Viola breathed in the warm damp bus air and longed and longed suddenly to have their own home back. They could spread out, be properly themselves again. Rachel would have plenty of space for her schoolwork, be able to have friends over who could actually stay the night instead of needing to be collected. They could
play
music as loud as they liked, talk freely without wondering if their every teen confidence could be overheard. Miles really couldn’t have his own way with his bizarre plans. For one thing, by the time she’d sold Bell Cottage, reorganized her mother’s house and got everything sorted to the rest of the family’s satisfaction, Rachel would be working on her plans to whizz off to university. The least she could do for her, while they still lived together, was to take her back to the home that was completely
theirs
.

TEN

‘HAVE YOU GOT
everything? Are you sure? You’ve got an awful lot of stuff to carry. How will you manage it on the tube?’ Outside the school, Viola fussed and flapped as she helped Rachel unload her overnight bag, school books, and the bin bag full of the now beautifully renovated cardigans, from the back of the Polo.

‘I’m on it. I can deal with it all, no problemo.’ Rachel somehow found a way to heap the whole cumbersome lot around her body, making it look as effortless as only a lithe teenager could. Viola had a sudden horrible vision of some of the bags tumbling on to the tube line at Ladbroke Grove, of Rachel thoughtlessly reaching down, trying to retrieve her scattered belongings just as a Circle Line train roared along. Stop it now, she told herself. All would be well.

‘Have you got your Oyster card? And don’t go leaving anything on the train, will you …’ I must stop this,
Viola
thought. Rachel is quite capable. She won’t accidentally shed possessions along the way like her mother does, or absent-mindedly take the wrong DLR train and end up getting off at Mudchute, curious to see if there actually was one.

‘Oh, Mum!’ Rachel laughed. ‘You should hear yourself! You’re in full-on mother-hen mode. Cluck-cluckety-cluck! It’s not like I haven’t stayed over at Dad’s before.’

She was, Viola thought, in an unusually good mood for a school morning. Normally if she gave her a lift at that time of the day, Rachel, still dopily sleep-bound, could barely manage to dredge a word out of herself, let alone actually giggle and joke. Communication was reduced to a basic growl-and-scowl combination if you made the mistake of questioning whether she’d remembered all her books, whether it was a violin day, or dared to ask if she would be staying on late or going to a friend’s place after school finished. At best there’d be a grunt by way of acknowledging a well-meant ‘have a nice day’.

Today she was quite bouncy. Viola didn’t expect this to be a permanent state of affairs but did put it down, mostly, to Rachel’s delight that they would soon be returning to Bell Cottage. She’d already been talking about arranging her room with her bed against the far wall so she’d get a view out over the garden when she woke up, and, with the help of Emmy, she’d decided on
the
paint colour – a soft silvery grey. To Viola it looked a bit
too
grey, a shade that could feel cold on a gloomy morning. It was maybe more the choice of Emmy (whose wardrobe full of black and purple, lace and velvet headgear would have been the envy of any Victorian undertaker’s mute), but Rachel insisted she was absolutely,
like, to’ally
sure it would look brilliant and she’d run it past her dad just to check – seeing as he was the designated Arty One. And anyway, it was
her
room. She was allowed to pick whatever she liked best.

‘Give my love to Marco and James, oh and Gemma when you give her the cardigans. And don’t …’ Viola hesitated, stopping herself just in time from saying ‘and don’t do anything silly’. That sounded too like Naomi. Not just Naomi when Viola was a teenager, but Naomi now: Naomi in full kimono-on-the-doorstep mode.
Not
bearable when you’re thirty-five, but at fourteen you had to hear these things – that was the deal. She modified it a bit, tried to be usefully specific. ‘When you’re going down to the market tomorrow, hang on to your bag tight and keep it zipped up and be careful who you get talking to.’

‘It’s fine, Mum! I’ve been down Portobello millions of times. And anyway, I expect Dad will come too, no worries. He likes to go to Garcias for posh ham and chorizo and stuff like that. He says we can have lunch at that little place with the roof garden.’

‘He lets you have a lot of freedom. I sometimes think
he
forgets how young you are,’ Viola said, worrying in spite of Rachel’s reassurance. ‘Just take care, OK?’

‘Yup.’ Rachel gave her mother a big, generous hug, which Viola found almost tearfully touching, considering that although Rachel’s year group were forever hugging each other, preening each other’s hair like fond monkeys and often holding hands, the idea of being caught showing public affection to a
mother
would be pretty much unthinkable.

‘See you on Sunday then,’ Viola managed to say, feeling pathetic. Ye gods, Rachel was only going to stay with her dad. She’d done it often enough before. Also, Viola was, for once, actually going
out
, doing grown-up socializing, among strangers, just like she used to. Like real people, with real lives. She felt quite nervous, thinking about it.

As if she were mind-reading, Rachel said, ‘Yeah, OK, and, Mum? When you go out clubbing with your mates tonight, like, have a
really
great time.’ She turned to go, lugging her bag burden with her, and then she grinned and called back to Viola, ‘But be careful who you talk to and
don’t do anything silly
!’

Rachel felt a bit guilty. She hadn’t when she’d planned this and, really, it shouldn’t be any big deal – other people bunked off school all the time. She went in through the school gates and waited for a few moments behind the hedge to watch the Polo drive away. She’d
have
to give it a while because the traffic was always slow in the mornings, and she didn’t want her mum to get held up at the crossroads and catch sight of her legging it back down the road in the rear-view mirror. It was a terrible burden, being so trusted.

‘What are you doing? Why are you here? Don’t you have other plans?’ Emmy made her jump.

‘I’m waiting for Mum to be far enough away so I can escape,’ Rachel told her.

‘You’ll be seen. During registration there’ll be one of the geeks who’s stupid enough to say you’re here somewhere. You’re wack at this, aren’t you?’ Emmy laughed at her and picked up one of the bags.

‘I haven’t had enough practice.’ Rachel was worried now. Cutting a class occasionally was one thing, going missing for a whole day was a bit more serious. If she got found out, well – the school would go ape and give her the lecture about trust and safety issues, and as for home: grounded, for sure, for a long time. For ever, probably. At least till she was past voting age. Her parents would get together, and maybe even her gran too, and do that ‘disappointed’ look, tell her she’d let them down on grounds of trust.
Everyone
hated that. It was the killer.

‘You haven’t had
any
practice. You’re rubbish. Man up, Hendricks, you haven’t a clue! Come with me, I’ll show you the way. What are you doing about weekend homework? And where are you going to change? You
can’t
work a stall in school uni. That would be, like, well weird.’

Emmy led her round the side of the school, past the back of the lunch hall. Only a few smokers were hanging around. They wouldn’t dob her in, she realized – they had their own school-rule breakages to deal with.

‘Changing in station loos. Got the right books. It’s always maths and there’s a load of French about
Ma Famille
. I
hate
that. It’s like they’re wanting to know about your home set-up and they think that if they get you to write it in French, it’s like not being so nosy. But it is really.’

‘Ssh …’ Emmy slowed at a corner of the building, standing close against the wall and peering forward carefully.

Rachel giggled. ‘You look like a cartoon spy,’ she whispered. ‘This is so random.’

‘OK, over there, through the gate by the fence.’ Emmy piled Rachel’s bags back on to her and gave her a push. ‘It’s always open till just gone nine for deliveries and stuff. No one else ever uses it.’ Rachel hesitated.

‘Go
on
!’ Emmy said. ‘Just
go
!’

‘I wish you were coming with me. Two of us would halve the guilt.’

‘No, it wouldn’t, you moron, it would double it,’ Emmy replied, reasonably enough. ‘And anyway,
what
guilt? It’s no biggie, it’s only Friday. Have a great time, Rache. Hope you make loads of dosh.’

By the time Rachel had reached the gate, Emmy had vanished as if she’d melted into the wall, though really she was probably behind the bins. She felt very alone – no turning back now. Her mum had once told her that when she was young she’d really loved the feeling that no one knew where she was. She’d got all misty-reminiscent about a holiday where she and her friends hitched all over Europe, backpacking on the cheap and hardly ever checking in with home. Rachel wasn’t so sure. She must, deep down, be a total wimp. Emmy had been right – she needed to man up. Or woman up. Why did no one ever say that? She’d bet none of the candidates on
The Apprentice
would have fretted about bunking off school to get their first go at being a business big shot. If she sold just one of her renovated knitwear items on Gemma’s stall, she’d be
massively
delighted.