Just a Girl, Standing in Front of a Boy (3 page)

I work at the doctor’s surgery. That’s not the sexiest of sentences, is it? I’m head of reception at the local GP. It just isn’t saucy. It just isn’t true either. I mean basically I
am
head of reception, on account of the fact that the other receptionist is Marge, who dodges anything that can be construed as work. But I’m not head of reception officially. Essentially I’m head of reception in all but title and pay. It’s not ideal. But I’m pretty sure it could be worse.

I love my job, a fact that surprises people.
What? You spend your days with grumpy, ill people!
they exclaim. But that’s what I like about it. I’m never happier than when the waiting room is full of sick, miserable people. And then guess what I do with them? I make them laugh. It’s not generally me that does it, it’s more my extensive selection of comedy DVDs and the surgery telly that does the hard work. They come in looking the epitome of doom. That’s the thing about illness, it can be pretty miserable. I mean some of them are literally dying. Now, I can’t be 100 per cent certain because I’ve never done a formal study on the subject, but it’s my belief that people don’t want to spend their last days, or months, or years being miserable, thinking, I’m going to die. I think they’d much rather watch
Miranda
or
Friends
or
Only Fools and Horses
. Actually I should qualify that, I’m sure they’d much rather be driving around California in a convertible or sipping rum punch on a Caribbean island but as circumstances have them stuck in Tiddlesbury at the doctor’s surgery, the first series of
Ab Fab
is what they’re getting, or at least it’s what they’re getting today.

I have been at work for over two hours and so far no signs of any surprise visits by my father, the arse. Thank goodness. In fact, all is as it normally is. Which means we have been ferociously busy and I have been sneakily opening my drawer, whenever things calm down, in order to read a page or two of my book. (Rosie’s actor boyfriend, Max Read – Rosie Read! I know, I so hope it works out for her – is lush. He could well make my list of favourite fictional boyfriends. Although, Rosie is getting more and more loopy as she tries to wangle a ring out of him, and I’m a bit worried she’s going to cop off with her handsome work colleague.) There’s also a box of Lindt truffles in my drawer which I purchased on my way to work. It means that my chocolate quotient for the day will be pretty extreme, what with the cake I had for breakfast. But I operate a strict ‘I am allowed all the treats I want’ policy on days when I might see my dad. I haven’t told Marge about the truffles yet. I’ll share them with her in a little while, but I’ll just sneak a few for myself first. She gets on automatic pilot with sweet treats and before you know it she says, ‘Here, Fan, you have the last one.’ It can be quite devastating. Oh, and because it’s a standard day at the surgery, Marge hasn’t offered to make the tea. Marge never makes the tea. Don’t get me started about Marge not making the tea.

Marge is quite frankly astonishing. She is thirty-seven and seventeen stone. But she is entirely happy with her shape. In fact she’s so happy with her shape that she might be taking part in a BBC documentary about the larger woman. Although when I say BBC I mean BBC Three, and when I say documentary, I mean a programme called
I Like ’Em Big
. We had a film crew here a while back filming Marge for a pilot. Although when I say film crew I mean one disgruntled bloke called Dave with a video camera, on what I now refer to as The Day When Marge Turned Into Liz Taylor. Marge has a pretty face, a jolly demeanour and she always wears very bright colours in patterns that I sometimes worry could harm epileptics. I am very fond of Marge, I just wish she’d make the tea more often and take it a bit easier on my Lindt truffles. Mind you, you have to be fond of Marge really because she belongs to the hardest family of criminals that we have in Tiddlesbury. I think there’s a game you can play where you can match any illegal drug found in Nunstone or Tiddlesbury back to a member of Marge’s family. She is in bit-twitching love with a fellow called Tim. He’s dodgy. He is in house clearance, but not the sort of house clearance that has been authorised, if you know what I mean. He is about my age, I think, and from what Marge says he is the handsomest man that ever sperm created. I have never met Tim, although I know a lot of intimate details about the man that I very much wish I didn’t. They have just bought a house together. Something else I know a lot about.

So, basically, I sit next to Marge on the reception of Tiddlesbury surgery trying to marshal the sick whilst she tells me about the tiles in her new bathroom and where Tim puts his finger when she is climaxing. But it’s not a bad place to work. I am quite content here. We can’t all be superstars, after all, and I really do like a lot of the patients, most of whom are OAPs. I am a bit of a hit amongst the elderly, if I do say so myself. If I ever had need to summon an army, it would consist almost entirely of ailing but wily octogenarians, and would, I predict, be pretty terrifying for the opposition. The army would most probably be led by my favourite patient, Doris, who’s just walking in now.

‘Ooh, sparkles today, Fanny!’ She smiles when she sees me.

‘Morning, Doris.’ I smile back.

You can’t not smile when Doris is about. She’s at least eighty, barely five foot, with the biggest knockers you’ve ever seen in your life, and I’ve never seen her anything but exquisitely turned out. Face powdered, mouth lipsticked, old-fashioned stockings with a perfectly placed seam down the back, neat suit over a soft-looking jumper (whatever the weather). But despite her immaculate appearance she very often has the mouth of an aggrieved builder and she loves a party. I adore her. Everyone adores Doris. Doris is the grandmother of the man who pooped on me from a great height when I was younger. It’s a shame Doris’ big heart didn’t rub off on him – a great shame, actually. I would love to be Doris’ granddaughter-in-law. Doris doesn’t know about her grandson’s pooping – Doris holds her Little Stevie on a bit of a pedestal and I think she’d be upset if I pushed him off it.

‘Have you heard?’ she says excitedly, approaching the desk.

‘What about?’ I grin.

‘A man’s moving into Rose Cottage. He’s a lone writer apparently,’ she chatters. ‘It sounds like the start of one of those books you read, Fanny, doesn’t it?’

‘Oh, yes, we did hear that,’ I say. That’s the other thing about working at the surgery. It’s marvellous for gossip and as Rose Cottage is the most beautiful house in Tiddlesbury, there’s no way someone could have moved in there without Marge and I being fully and repeatedly informed.

‘I’m in to see Dr Flemming,’ she says. ‘But I thought I’d pop in a bit early to see my favourite girl.’

‘So, how have you been, my lovely?’ I ask her.

‘Well, just the one funeral this week. Bloody dreadful. Don’t know what the family were thinking,’ Doris says, sitting down and getting comfortable. She’s off. Once Doris is off there’s no stopping her. Her funeral tirade is passionate and frequent. She’s terribly disappointed with the nature of funerals at the moment. She says that once you’re in your eighties they’re the only parties you get invited to.

‘There was no booze! Fanny! Not a sniff of the stuff. Mildred had her first sherry at eleven every morning, and yet her family didn’t lay on any booze at her funeral. And they weren’t short of a bob or two, Fanny.’

‘Oh, no, Doris. What did you do?’

‘Well, I had my hip flask with me. It’s happened to me before, you see, so I was prepared. But anyway, it got me thinking. When I go, I want a party. A big bash. The bigger the better. I want everyone legless, dancing till dawn to Rod Stewart, oh, that man, Fanny, I could wear him out. I want pork pies, proper ham sandwiches. Cheap fizz and port to drink. No beer, Fanny, I don’t care what the men say, it makes them fart. I want a right old knees-up.’

‘Will you have a dress code?’ I ask. I love a dress code.

‘Ohhhh.’ Doris nods. ‘Oh, yes, let me think…’ She purses her lips and furrows her brow. She really is giving the dress code a lot of consideration.

Marge utilises the break in Doris’ narrative to sigh loudly. Uh oh. I think I know what’s coming.

‘Oh, I’d love a cup of tea,’ she says, in her wistful ‘I’ve never had a cup of tea in my life’ way.

Here we go. The bane of my working life. This is Marge’s first Get Jenny To Make the Tea Tactic. It will be followed in a few moments by some excuse as to why she can’t get up and put the kettle on.

‘My back’s twinging again, otherwise I’d get up and make us both a nice cup of tea now. Ooh.’ The ‘ooh’ comes with a pained wince. ‘It is sore. Hmmm,’ she whimpers as though she’s in agony. ‘Ow,’ she adds for good measure.

And that’s as much as I can take. I stand up. I know. I’m weak. I’m a walkover. I always end up making the tea.

‘Here, I’ll make you a cup of tea,’ I say. I get my phone and my book out of my drawer, take her mug and head to the kitchen.

‘Oh, Fanny, thank you,’ she says, as though I’ve just saved her from a burning building.

Once in the kitchen I turn the radio and the kettle on and then lean over the counter and try and get a few pages of my book in before the kettle boils. A Rihanna song comes on air. I am just having a little attempt at a Rihanna grind, when Marge pokes her face round the door. I freeze, bottom sticking out, book in hand.

‘I love this song,’ I say by way of explanation.

‘I can see,’ she says. ‘There’s a woman asking for you.’

She disappears. We can’t both be away from the front desk. I pop back into the waiting room but I can’t see any woman there who might be waiting for me.

‘She went outside,’ Marge informs me.

I open the surgery doors and peek my head out into the street.

Blimey. A big bundle of blimey, in fact. There standing on the pavement, surrounded by an awful lot of luggage, is my mother. Absolutely no sign of my father at all. Just Mum, a bit thinner than normal, her long, blue, buttoned-at-the-front skirt and pink cardigan look slightly too big for her. Her light brown hair hangs unbrushed to her shoulders and her eyes look both tired and wired.

‘Where’s Dad?’

‘Work, I suppose. Or with his lover, perhaps.’

‘Dad’s got a lover?’ I whisper.

‘Yes, and I’ve come to stay with you, I thought we could have a bit of fun.’

‘What?’

‘Fun.’ She lifts her shoulders towards her ears and smiles. ‘And chats. There’s so much we need to talk about. Can I stay with you?’

I stand staring at her with my mouth open. Fun and chats? Has she lost the plot?

‘But… but… I live above a shop. In Tiddlesbury.’

‘Do you mind if I stay?’

‘Well. No, course not. But… but…’

‘What?’

‘Well, what about your work?’

My mum works for a charity. She’s a tremendous fundraiser for a local hospice.

‘I’ve handed my role to someone else. I need some me time. Now, can I leave these bags with you? I need to get me a haircut.’

The whole notion of reality seems to be spinning on its head.

‘OK.’

‘Brilliant. I’ll do that first. Can’t have fun with my hair like this, can I?’

I shake my head. She’s got a point.

‘See you in a few hours, probably. I need a colour.’

And with that she’s off, and I think she might have just skipped a little down the street. It’s not even lunchtime and the day has careered into weird. Two suitcases and a rucksack! How long is she intending to stay? My father has a lover and Mum’s come to stay with me. My father has a lover and my mum’s come to stay with me. Even when I repeat it in my head it still sounds unbelievable. I put the rucksack on my back and haul the suitcases into the surgery. My father has a lover and my mother’s come to stay with me. Nope, still weird.

‘What on earth?’ Marge exclaims as soon as she sees me.

‘Don’t ask,’ I say, humping the bags to the kitchen.

Alone for a moment, I close my eyes. My body shivers and there’s a fluttering behind my eyes that makes me feel like I want cry. I have to help my mother at this time. Obviously I do. However, I wish this wasn’t happening. I like my life as it is, as it was, separate from my parents, separate from my past.

Mum’s only had her hair cut like Victoria Beckham. And that’s not all. Oh, no. Oh ho, oh no. She’s also dyed it blonde. Blonde. She’s fifty-four. Which I know isn’t ancient but I would say is bit old to opt for a blonde Victoria Beckham bob. It actually doesn’t look bad. But she’s not my mother. The woman in my flat at this precise moment cannot be my mother. My mother wears practical clothes, more often than not with an apron over the top because she’s cooking, and she never does anything with her hair, let alone sexy styling. She’s having a midlife. And she’s staying with me. Help.

‘Um, so, when did you find out?’ I ask, sitting myself at the kitchen table. Mum’s looking in the fridge.

‘You don’t have any wine open, do you?’

Definitely a midlife. My mother only drinks with dinner. On Saturdays. It’s 4.30 on Friday afternoon. Even I’d wait until 6 p.m. Well, maybe 5.30.

‘I think there’s a bottle of wine in there you can open.’

She turns around and smiles, holding a bottle of rosé.

‘What fun.’

I get up and fetch some glasses and a corkscrew.

‘I wonder whether blondes do have more,’ she says shaking her head as I sit down and open the wine. I pour two glasses. I can’t have her drinking alone and Dr Flemming gave me the afternoon off when he heard my mother had arrived unannounced. ‘I’ve always wanted to be blonde and Jack said no. No, no, no. Jack said that a lot.’

‘So, what happened?’

‘Sue. It was Sue. My friend Sue!’

‘Bloody hell.’

‘I’d go as far as fu —’

‘Mum.’ I gasp. She was going to say the F-word. I’ve never heard my mum swear in my life. ‘Mum, please don’t swear. That would be very unsettling.’

‘It has been going on for years.’

‘When did you find out?’

‘A month ago now. ‘

‘A month ago.’

‘He said he had a work do in Birmingham. But I knew he hadn’t. I knew. I’d known he wasn’t always where he said he was. But this time, as I was sat alone watching the telly, I snapped, I’d had some news that day and it made me snap and I thought, I’ll just check Sue’s house. So, I got a taxi there. Seventeen miles, so it’s not round the corner, it wasn’t cheap. But I had a feeling. And there was his car, bold as brass, parked in her driveway. So I paid the cab driver and I got in your father’s car, I had a key on my set of house keys, you see. I was insured on the car. The family car, that’s what he used to call it. So I drove it home and put it in the garage. Jack called the next morning. “The car’s been stolen,” he told me, he wasn’t happy. “From Birmingham?” I said. “Yes,” he told me. “Oh dear, you must call the police,” I said. “Yes, yes,” he said. “Yes, yes.” Anyway, he came back that night, I’d made a lasagne, and I said, “Jack, can you pop into the garage and fetch me some garlic bread out of the freezer while you’ve got your shoes on.” And so he did. And when he came back with the garlic bread he looked furious. So I dropped the lasagne on the floor with the oven dish, which was very dramatic for me, I thought, and I took myself off to bed. Your old bed, in fact.’

‘But this was a month ago and you’ve only just left.’

‘Well, I didn’t get out of bed for a few weeks.’

I nod. I do that. Stay in bed when I can’t face things.

‘Then I got up and packed my bags and went to Wales.’

‘Wales?’

‘Yes, I’d always wanted to go to Wales. It always looks so pretty on
Countryfile
. So I did a coach tour of Wales.’

‘A coach tour?’

‘Yes, because then I didn’t have to think about anything. You just get on a coach when they tell you and get off when they tell you and I had a lot of time looking out of the window and thinking. And I decided that I should come and see you, Jenny. And have some fun with my beautiful daughter.’

‘I’m so not beautiful.’

‘You are, Jenny, you are. You are so beautiful and I wish I’d told you more.’

She’s welling up. Oh, blimey. We could be in a midlife-and-menopause scenario.

‘So what have you got planned for your Friday night?’ she asks. ‘And can I come too?’ she adds with a giggle.

Woah, now she’s really freaking me out.

‘Actually, I’m supposed to be seeing Matt.’

‘Can I come?’ she asks. ‘I can’t wait to meet him.’

‘Um. Um. Um. Let me call him.’

I leave Mum in the kitchen and go to my room to call Matt. I hang up the discarded silver dresses from earlier, which is very unlike me, but I suppose Mum will be sleeping in here now and I’ll be on the sofa. My father’s been shagging Mum’s friend, Sue, and now Mum’s come to stay with me. Nope, still weird, actually I think it might be getting weirder. And she’s had her hair cut like Victoria Beckham. I need to sit down.

I perch on the end of the bed and call my gorgeous man.

‘Hello, darling, lovely weather.’

‘F-a-a-a-n!’ He tuts affectionately. ‘It’s so annoying when you do that.’

My gorgeous man is not one for chit-chat.

‘I just can’t help it.’

As soon as Matt suggests that something I do is annoying I want to do it all the time. I do try not to but it’s a very powerful instinct.

‘Fan, please, I’m really busy and I need to leave early because we’re going into London tonight.’

‘London!’

‘Balls, it was supposed to be a surprise.’

‘Matt, my mum’s arrived.’

‘Your mum?’

‘Yes.’

‘Your actual mum?’

‘Yes, my actual mum. Not the genetically cloned one that I ordered off the Internet.’

‘Fan, you’re talking nonsense.’

‘Sorry, my dad’s been having an affair and my mum’s come to stay. I’m in shock.’

‘Fan, you can’t cancel on me, you really can’t. Trust me.’

‘No, course not, so why doesn’t she come with us? Then you can meet her.’

‘Fan, I’ve not planned this evening to have your mum with us.’

‘OK, OK, chillax.’

‘I hate chillax.’

‘I know.’

‘Look, I’ve got to go. Meet me at the station at six thirty.’

He hangs up. My shoulders slump forward as I sit. Sometimes I wish Matt was a bit more understanding, a bit less obsessed with his work. Sometimes it all feels like a battle with Matt. A battle I tend to lose. I know, I shouldn’t think like that. He’s lovely really, he just gets quite stressed when he’s at work. No one’s perfect. I hoist myself up from the bed and I shuffle back into the kitchen, Mum’s already topping up her wine.

‘Mum, I’m sorry, Matt’s got something planned for just the two of us, I have to go to London with him. Do you mind?’

‘Oh, no, love. Don’t you worry about me.’ Mum smiles. ‘I don’t want to spoil your plans. I’ll just get myself a nice bottle of wine and watch the telly. Unless… unless… I don’t suppose…’

‘What?’

‘No, no. Don’t worry.’

‘What?’

‘You haven’t got any marijuana have you?’

‘M-u-m! No, I haven’t!’

Oh, my God. She’s definitely having a midlife.

‘It’s about time I started to live a little,’ she says, in a voice I don’t recognise.

I just nod at her and then start to text Philippa about the strange events of the day.