Lou Out of Luck Page 2

  Dad’s made a special birthday lunch for Mum and we’ve bought her presents – mostly stationery, which always goes down well. She is currently unwrapping her fourth highlighter pen. Although she only uses them at work, so I guess they’re not as useful now. Awkward.

  I sneakily scoop a few tactless presents off the table before she has a chance to open them. There are only so many red pens you need if you’re not marking papers.

  Lav’s phone vibrates and Dad picks it up.

  “Dad! That could be personal!”

  “I know!” he says. “That’s why I do random checks, to make sure there’s nothing too personal. Why is Roman texting you Toot toot? Is that a bosoms thing?”

  “Ew.”

  “Daaad.”

  “Mark, don’t say bosoms, you’re not a nineteenth-century governess,” Mum says, admiring a glittery notebook from me.

  Lav explains. “Roman’s outside, but he’s too polite to hoot his horn, so … toot toot.”

  “But not polite enough to get out of the car and come in… Hello, Mark. Hello, Flora. You’re looking well today, Mark, have you lost weight? No, Roman, thank you, though. It’s a new thing I’m trying – vertical stripes to flatter my curves. Plus I have started drinking green tea and I think it’s a diuretic, or maybe I’m not very well, but either way I think my over-active bowels are slimming me out…”

  We leave Dad talking to himself and head outside. Roman looks irritable, and when he and Gabriel get out of the car, I see why. They are dressed identically.

  “Aaaaahhh,” Mum says from the doorway. “Our girls are dating the same boy in small and large.”

  “Mother!” Gabe is the “small” version. I am much taller than him, I have to dip when we kiss. Sometimes when I do, he points a dainty toe behind him like a woman in a film. I wish he wouldn’t.

  “I told him to change but he wouldn’t,” Ro complains.

  “They’re my nicest clothes!” Gabe protests.

  “Mate. It looks like our mum dressed us.”

  “Come on. She still buys some of our clothes.”

  “If we get drunk…” Dad begins, changing the subject.

  “We won’t,” Mum interrupts him.

  “No, no, no, certainly not,” he agrees demurely. “But IF we do, we’ll get a cab home. Come on, Flo, birthday treat!”

  Mum slings on a trench coat over her silky dress and drapes a vintage scarf around her neck. She always just chucks layers of clothes on as she’s leaving the house and somehow they all sit right and make her look like a French spy.

  “Am I OK in what I’m wearing?” I say to Lav, suddenly feeling scruffy.

  “You look great,” Gabe says, pushing me into the car.

  Hannah says it’s amazing I’ve become cool without improving my dress sense. Which would be mean if said in front of others, but as there were only the two of us there, it was just good BFF straight-talking. Plus it’s so true. I’m wearing a T-shirt they gave away free at the bank when Dad took out a loan. It has a pig on it. The pig is wearing a top hat and is therefore more smartly dressed than me.

  We follow Mum and Dad’s car. It’s going very slowly and coughing out some ominous dark fumes.

  “Your parents need to get their car seen to,” Ro points out. “That’ll cost a packet if they leave it and end up needing their whole exhaust replaced.”

  Since Roman passed his driving test and got a car, he’s started making remarks about car maintenance. All the time. I nod politely. Gabe slumps on my shoulder and starts fake-snoring.

  We pull into the pub car park next to Mum and Dad, who both look concerned at the rattling noises coming from underneath their car.

  “Birthday girls don’t worry about fan belts,” Dad announces. (I’ve never heard that saying before.)

  “Exhaust pipes,” Ro corrects him.

  “Potayto potarto.”

  Dad takes Mum’s hand and leads her towards the pub like a queen. She has been ordered to act surprised when everyone jumps up and shouts, “Surprise!”

  This doesn’t work for any other emotions, I’ve realized. You can’t yell “Jealous!” or “Hungry!” at people and expect them to feel it.

  I’m at the back of the line, so all I hear is “SUR—”, then loud crashing and splintering noises and a very convincing scream from Mum. I don’t think she was acting. Her big and boisterous family decided it would be a good idea to climb on tables and jump down onto her. I have a few cousins who are around eighteen – years and stone – and by the time I push my way into the pub, I can see them staggering to their feet and apologizing to squashed relatives on the floor.

  The barman is already telling Mum there’s zero chance of her getting her deposit back – and Happy Birthday, by the way. I can see Evil Grandma laughing herself hoarse in the corner.

  Dad presses a glass of Prosecco into Mum’s hand, steers her away from Grandma and tells her to enjoy herself because Louise and Lavender are in charge of making sure there are no further damages. “Right, girls?” he says, giving us a bossy look and a big glass of Coke each. Oh great. PAR-TAY.

  I can see this isn’t going to be a fun-packed afternoon for Lav and me, though it’s amusing watching Mum introduce her “new” boyfriend to her family, saying, “Yes, he does look familiar. You were at our wedding about twenty years ago and then we got divorced?” Poor Dad’s getting a chilly reception. The problem with going out with your ex-husband is that when you divorced him everyone agreed that he was a waste of space, you could do MUCH better and he wouldn’t age well.

  “You got out at the right time,” they said. “He’ll develop man hips.”

  Basically, everyone in this room has bad-mouthed our dad at some point. But I’ve got no time to feel sorry for him, I’m on Crowd Control.

  “Lou!” Lav points behind me at three young cousins trying to get into the top of the jukebox to see how it works. We rush towards them, while Gabe and Roman melt away mysteriously into the crowd. Thanks, guys!

  “It’s good you’re curious about, um, science –” I grab the smallest cousin and prise a heavy ashtray out of his hand – “but we’re trying to have one family party where the police aren’t called.”

  “Who invited Buzz Killington?” he says, cockily, and they all laugh at me.

  “Ha ha,” I retort and resist the urge to grab all three of them and suspend them by their belts from a high coat hook.

  I look around for Gabe but all I see is Uncle Vinnie’s girlfriend, Nicky, lecturing the barman over his “stingy” spirit measures. Lavender rolls her eyes at me – this is our department.

  “Hey, Nicky!”

  The distraction works. She squeaks and throws her arms in the air when she sees us. Relieved, the barman sneaks off.

  “Look at you two, like a pair of models!” she crows.

  I stifle a sugary burp. So not cool.

  “Hey, have you seen your dad’s here? Isn’t that weird? Do you think he’ll fight Flora’s new fella?”

  “I’d like to see that,” says Lav, honestly.

  “And Eddie’s back from travelling,” Nicky says.

  “Travelling? He’s forty-eight.” Lavender is baffled.

  “How long did he go for?” I ask.

  “Eighteen months, twelve with good behaviour,” Mum says, appearing behind Lav. Prison, she mouths at us as she kisses Nicky hello.

  “Have you seen your uncle Don?” Mum asks me.

  “No, why?” I say warily, sensing he’s about to become my responsibility.

  “He’s playing Pin the Tail on the Donkey in the beer garden. On the donkey. In the beer garden.”

  “Good girl? … Please?”

  I hold out a carrot. The donkey, puffing heavily, gives it a suspicious look. I leave it on the ground for when she’s more in the mood.

  Uncle Vinnie and Uncle Don are sitting on a bench, panting with laughter.

  “Did you see it, Louly?”

  “Yes,” I say, taking their drinks off them. “It was ver
y funny, and I think you should never do it again. How are you drunk already?”

  “Little tip –” Uncle Don holds up a finger with a wise air – “skip lunch.”

  The barman pokes his head out of the door. “Have they been bothering my Angelina?”

  “We’re all just having a laugh!” I say, avoiding the question.

  “Your dad wants to see you anyway. And you two –” he points at my uncles – “she’s an old lady, treat her with respect.”

  I leave Angelina to her carrot and Vinnie and Don to each other. Lavender grabs me as soon as I’m back inside.

  “No,” I say, pre-empting her. “You deal with the next thing. I did the donkey.”

  “Dad says we can have a drink!”

  “I’ve got a drink,” I say.

  “No, a drink drink.”

  “Oh, a drink drink?”

  We squeeze past an impromptu dance floor and head for the bar. Am I going to get drunk today? Am I finally going to find out what it feels like? BIG DAY. I have lied at school, airily implied I’ve had some drunken nights at family weddings, and that time we went abroad: No, no one saw me – we were in France. No one from school can back up my story but it definitely absolutely happened. I was SEEHHR DER-RUNK. But no witnesses.

  Sometimes I tell such a good story I forget I’m lying, but Hannah’s face reminds me. She’d never tell on me, but she won’t back me up either.

  Everyone else I know has got drunk at some point, but if you have swimming training six times a week, drinking isn’t appealing. Old habits die hard, I guess. Who wants to be sick in a changing room toilet at seven the next morning?

  Hannah’s still training, so if there’s to be drunkenness, it’s a good thing she didn’t come to the party, I tell myself. Yes, that makes me feel less guilty about the whole gooseberry misunderstanding. I check my phone. Still no reply; she can really hang on to a moody silence.

  Lav corners Dad by the bar with, “You said we could have a drink drink, so…?”

  “That doesn’t sound like something I’d say.”

  “You probably said it in a deeper voice,” I chip in.

  “Champagne, please,” Lav says airily. Dad raises his eyebrows and she backtracks. “Well, I don’t mind Prosecco…”

  “Yes,” I say. “I also don’t mind Prosecco. I’m not fussy!”

  “Al?” Dad turns to the barman. “Two half-pints, please. Bitter and a stout. Pop ’em on my tab. And … the party discount, right?”

  Al is a large man with a small face. He looks thoughtful.

  “Mark, I’ve got a very robust craft ale just in, if you’re interested?”

  “Lovely. Swap it out for the stout.” Dad turns back to us with a little half-pint of mud in each hand, Al smirking behind him.

  “What?” Lav is disgusted. “What is this?”

  “Is it a cocktail?” I pipe up. “It’s very brown. I don’t want to say too brown, but…”

  “It’s this or nothing.”

  I’d rather have nothing but I don’t want Lavender to think I’m a wimp.

  “Fine.”

  He hands them over as if they’re precious. I take the darkest brown one and give it a sip. It tastes like sweat. Lav and I swap and taste each other’s. They are equally rancid.

  We go and mingle, sipping our drinks and occasionally retching uncontrollably. The music has got louder now, and I can see Nicky dancing with her elbows out, sharp and at eye-level, carving out dance floor space for herself.

  A slow song comes on, and I see Lav look for Roman. Obviously she’s too cool to slow-dance with her boyfriend at a family party, but hey, it would have been nice to be asked. I haven’t seen Gabe or Roman since we got here. I’ve been too busy averting disasters. I glance around and spot Roman easily as he’s so tall. A semicircle of young girls are standing around him, looking up adoringly. One of them is handing him another drink so now he has a bottle of beer in each hand. He is loving the attention.

  “Oh, thanks, Fenella. No, I didn’t actually meet the Britain’s Hidden Talent judges…” – he pauses for comic timing – “just nearly drowned them!”

  We nearly drowned them, but whatever.

  Lavender makes an exasperated noise. I don’t blame her, Roman has been milking his brief TV fame for all it’s worth and it is annoying. Lav says she can’t even look at his Instagram – it’s turned into a never-ending stream of brooding selfies in flattering light. He has about a hundred girls who “like” every shot and make comments like, omg u look gr8 hunny.

  I feel quietly proud that Gabriel didn’t hog the limelight in the same way. Well, tbf he had a big relapse of his ME straight afterwards and spent three weeks in bed, so he didn’t have much choice. But STILL. I win the boyfriends. No one calls him “hunny”.

  Speaking of which, Lavender points Gabe out to me, next to the jukebox. He’s actually bending over it, floppy with giggles. I push my way through the crowd towards him, Lavender following.

  “Gabe?” He spins round, looking guilty. Up close I see he’s sweaty and his eyes are bleary. Two or three empty pint glasses sit precariously on top of the jukebox. Someone’s had more luck getting drunk than we have. Gabe flings his arm around me, with some difficulty given the height difference. I kindly bend at the knees. I don’t have much choice as he’s hanging quite a lot of weight on my neck.

  His breath is sour – it’s as bad as the bitter. I’ve never thought this before but I hope he doesn’t try to kiss me.

  “You know I think you’re very special, Lou Brown,” he says, firmly, waggling a finger in my face. Lav is watching. It’s not my most romantic moment.

  “Yes,” I say, uncertainly.

  “You just know who you are, you know? You gotta really strong sense of YOU, OK? And I like that you dress like that and I just think you’re great. And sorry I don’t say it more and I get a bit caught up with my things.”

  He flaps his hand around to loosely indicate “things” and slaps me gently round the head in the process. He doesn’t notice.

  “Uh-huh,” I say, because drunk praise is worth less than normal praise, so I don’t feel too flattered.

  “And also, may I try your drink, please?” He gives me big puppy-dog eyes and I’m happy to hand it over. He downs it in a couple of gulps.

  I hope Mum doesn’t mind that Gabe has been drinking. I look around for her just as everyone else does likewise, because Dad, Nicky and Uncle Vinnie have started singing a loud, tuneless “Happy Birthday to You…”

  So, Uncle Vinnie and Uncle Don actually did two things for Mum’s party. They booked a pub and bought her a massive cake in the shape of a pile of books. Uncle Don is carrying it towards her. We cheer while she tries to blow out the candles. It’s not easy. Don’s swaying and the cake is wobbling. All around them, people are putting their drinks down, getting ready to catch a cake and a man.

  In the silence while Mum blows out the candles, I can hear Grandma say, “How old is Flora now…? I thought she was older than that.” Mum gives her a determined smile over the cake. I glance at Lavender and she shakes her head. We can’t be in charge of Grandma too. We’d need a lion tamer for that.

  When the candles are finally blown out, Cousin-June-twice-removed grabs the cake off Don and takes it somewhere safer. Mum makes a lovely speech, thanking everyone for coming and saying how surprised she is! And how happy she is to share it with Mark again. Most people say, Aaaah, though a couple roll their eyes and Grandma gives a disgusted snort.

  Ten minutes later I’m handing slices of cake around the room.

  “You’re definitely going to eat it,” I say firmly to a small relative. Rob. Bob? Something like that.

  He nods, solemnly. Is it Toby?

  “Not going to throw it?” I press him for a promise before I hand it over.

  “Why would I throw it?”

  I shrug. “For fun, to get someone in the face, you know, high jinks.”

  At least Mum’s having a nice time. She and Dad are now
slow-dancing, cheek to cheek. Perhaps, maybe, if they weren’t my parents, it would be sweet. But they are my parents. People take photos of them then get tapping on their phones, presumably writing things like, OMG – you’ll never guess and I give it six months. Mum and Dad nuzzle noses and that is my absolute limit.

  Lav and I head outside. I feel a soft thud on the back of my head. I pause and look behind me. Rob or Bob or Toby gives me a shy, angelic smile. I put a hand to my hair and it comes back covered in icing, jam and sponge.

  “Bye, Uncle Vinnie!” We wave at him while Uncle Don tries to drag him into a waiting cab. The cab driver eyes them suspiciously.

  “Les go fru McDonald’s, mate.” Uncle Vinnie squashes his face against the driver’s window. “My treat, anything you like. We’ll go supersize. They can’t stop us.”

  From the pub, we hear “Happy” by Pharrell Williams for the fifteen-thousandth time and there are howls of rage, then Dad appears, dragging a giggling Gabriel out. That’s what he was doing with the jukebox.

  Dad has some trouble getting the boys in our minicab. “Bend. No … lads, bend at the waist, not the knees. WHY ARE YOU SQUATTING?”

  “Mark, just shove them in,” says Mum.

  “I can’t bring them home drunk and injured.”

  Mum leans across. “Roman, take my hand.”

  “I’m sorry, Flora, I gotta girlfriend.” Mum grabs him by the wrist. “I am flattered, though,” he tells her, as she yanks him into the car.

  “Don’t worry, Mum’s not one of your fan club,” Lav tells him acidly as she and I get in after him, but she’s wasting good sarcasm.

  “Right.” The taxi driver is bored now. “Can we go?”

  “Radio on, please!” the boys shout from the back, and they sing along to everything that comes out of the speakers, including the adverts. I’m glad Hannah didn’t come. She’d have been one angry, sour gooseberry by now.

  Dad puts his hand on Mum’s knee. Lavender moves it to his own knee, but it finds its way back to Mum. Lav’s not impressed.

  “Do you think you’ll get the deposit back?” she asks, successfully squashing the romantic mood.