Drama Queen (11 page)

The geography teacher had no better news.

‘Six extensions this term, Jessica. It's just not good enough.'

I won't go into what happened further down the line of subjects. As we left the hall Dad and Mum were in a deep whispered discussion over whose fault it was that my marks had slipped. Predictably, they each blamed the other. As if I couldn't take credit for my poor averages all by myself.

Back at home Mum rushed to the bathroom and scrubbed her face. She looked out through the door with eye make-up running down her cheeks.

‘That was the most embarrassing evening of my life,' she said. ‘This stuff doesn't even come off with soap!'

I went and found her some of my waterproof mascara remover. ‘I could see Dad thought you looked pretty good.'

‘Your dad wasn't the only person there.'

‘Apart from the other parents who you've known for years, and the teachers who don't matter.'

‘What
did
your father
look
like?' she said, scrubbing vigorously at her eyes with a cotton-wool pad.

‘Black leather is pretty cool.'

‘He looked like a Hell's Angel. An ageing one. Pathetic, if you ask me. And look at your term's averages.'

‘There's been a lot going on.'

‘Too much. I think from now on, it would be a good idea if you stayed in more and concentrated on your homework, Jessica.'

‘But I
am
concentrating. It's just that no one sees things the way I do.'

‘The trouble with you is that you've too much imagination.'

‘Isn't that meant to be a good thing?'

‘Not if it's interfering with your work.'

I stared at her resentfully. She'd see things differently when I was a famous writer. The kind of person she studied in her OU set books. She'd be proud of me then.

‘You don't understand. I've had a lot on my mind recently,' I complained.

Her face softened. ‘Yes, I suppose you have. Like moving home and everything.'

I nodded. I hated fighting with Mum.

‘Come on, let's have supper and a video. It's too late to do any homework tonight.'

We finished the evening eating spaghetti in front of a video of
The Bridges of Madison County
. It was one of Mum's favourites – she'd nearly worn out the copy
from the video shop. It always made her cry.

‘I don't know why you watch it,' I said as she reached for the tissue box.

‘Nor do I,' she said, half-laughing and drying her eyes.

‘I suppose it's nice to think people can still fall in love when they're old and everything.'

‘They weren't old.'

‘Clint Eastwood was all wrinkly and had grey hair.'

‘So? Grey hair doesn't stop people being in love.'

‘Doesn't it?'

‘Of course not. It's the more important things that matter.'

‘Like what?'

‘All sorts of things. Liking the same people. Wanting to do the same things. Sharing the same interests …'

‘What sort of interests?'

‘Oh I don't know … Films and music and books and things …'

This got me thinking. One of Mum's constant moans was that Dad never read a decent book. So, that Saturday, instead of our usual meeting in the park, I'd suggested to Dad that we met up at Bookfest – our local bookshop, the one with the coffee bar which Cedric had mixed up with Costa's.

 

Bookfest was halfway up the high street. To get to it you had to go over the bridge that crossed the river. I decided to walk because I always loved to see the river – steel-grey in winter, all silver and glittery in summer, or like today, in spring, a sleek olive grey-green that slid beneath me as I paused midway across.

It was the first really warm day of the year. The river was gleaming in the sunlight. In the distance bright sailing boats were darting to and fro. Along the riverside, couples were walking hand in hand. Families with kids in pushchairs were heading for the play area in the park. I paused to watch a pleasure boat as it set sail from the pier. Happy couples leaned on the rails as they embarked on their journey upstream to the botanical gardens …

Which made me think of Clare and Cedric. Happy couple NOT. What they needed was some quality time alone together. That last time I'd tried to set them up had been such a disaster.

I watched the boat getting smaller and smaller as it steamed away. Which gave me an idea. Anyone on board would be trapped for an hour and a half with no way of escape. Water lapping by. There's
nothing like water to bring on romance.

I made my way down the ramp to the timetable. There was another trip upstream at 4 p.m. Perfect! I texted Clare first.

dear wobble
love beckons
4pm boat upstream to Kew
be there or be dead
love j

Then I texted Cedric.

fancy a magical mystery tour?
4pm boat upstream to kew!
j

Then I made my way on up to the high street, happily imagining them meeting. Each surprised to see the other. They'd be looking out for me, of course, but when I didn't turn up it would be too late. The boat would be pulling out from the jetty and they'd both say they were sorry I'd missed it, but secretly they'd be glad to be on their own.

 

As usual, Dad was late, so I started browsing through the ‘Three for Two' offers. These were mainly novels – always an uphill job to get him to read one of those. I lingered over a few war books and then headed for the non-fiction shelves.

Here was a netherworld of gardening books and DIY manuals, hardly qualifying for what Mum would call a ‘good read'. I went back to the novels and searched through the titles. And then I spotted what seemed to be the perfect book.
Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance
. The Zen bit would appeal to Mum and it sounded as if it might be a handy book to help Dad with the new bike.

I paid for the book and went and sat at one of the coffee tables waiting for Dad. In a corner of the children's section a lady was sitting reading to a semicircle of noisy toddlers. The toddlers weren't listening and I could see her getting hot and bothered behind her reading glasses as she tried unsuccessfully to win their attention without sounding cross.

Eventually, I spotted Dad coming through the doors. He was wearing a brand new jumper.

‘Hey. You look good. Like the jumper. Who chose it?

He hesitated. ‘Aren't I able to choose a jumper for myself?'

‘Not without “go faster” stripes. No.'

‘So just maybe I'm learning.'

‘It must be my brainwashing.'

‘That's right – clever you.' He changed the subject. ‘What's that you've got there?'

‘Birthday present.'

‘For me?'

‘Who else?'

‘Well, thank you. Can I open it now?'

‘Of course.'

‘Ah! Ah ha! A book!' I could tell Dad was trying to sound pleased. ‘Looks interesting.'

‘Thought seeing as you'd bought the bike …'

‘Nice one! Yeah, it looks … interesting,' he repeated.

‘What do you want to do now?'

‘How about a coffee and a browse?'

When our coffee came Dad took a little pack of artificial sweeteners out of his pocket.

‘What's that for?'

He patted his stomach. ‘Thought I'd try and fight back against anno Domini. I joined that gym, by the way.'

‘Really? Good for you.'

‘Your suggestion. Turned out to be one of the best things I've ever done.'

(Huh – so you see, you
can
influence people.)

When we'd finished our coffee Dad suggested a walk in the park. ‘Then I thought I'd do us lunch at my place.'

‘
You
cook lunch?'

‘Well, maybe not cook, exactly.' He indicated a couple of supermarket bags he had with him. ‘Put it together, maybe.'

‘Cool.'

Dad hardly ever had me back to his place. I think he was a bit ashamed of it. He'd bought a flat in a really run-down estate. He'd wanted a two-bedroom one so that I could stay with him, and got it cheap. But I'd never actually stayed.

Dad had three locks on his front door. He even locked the door after us once we were in. The estate was pretty rough.

I went into the main room and stared out of the window. This was the view that Dad had every day. A stretch of patchy tarmac with a row of bins and a car without wheels that had been vandalised. There was a decaying concrete block of flats opposite whose doors and windows had been painted in optimistically bright colours: orange and turquoise, which somehow
made the damp-stained buildings look even more bleak.

It seemed so crazy that once he'd had a house and a garden in a nice street and now all he had was this. Surely he couldn't prefer it to living with me and Mum?

‘You can't
like
living here,' I blurted out.

Dad shrugged. ‘It's all I can afford. Anyway, it's central and I've got a lock-up down below for the bike.'

I wanted to shout at him. To tell him to get back to his senses. It wasn't too late. They weren't divorced yet. But I just said, ‘It all seems so crazy.'

‘It's not really living here that's the problem.'

‘What d'you mean?'

‘You get lonely living alone. It would be the same anywhere.'

‘Well, exactly. That's what I've been trying to say.'

‘Well. I'll have to do something about it. Won't I?'

‘Yes.'

‘I might surprise you one of these days.' Dad gave a secret smile and rubbed his hands together.

I wasn't having any of that. ‘Come on, you can't start a topic like that then simply drop it.'

‘Nah, don't pester. You'll know all about it, sooner or later.'

Sooner or later! If Mum and Dad were thinking about getting back together I should be the
first
to know. I pressed harder. But Dad wouldn't be pressurised. He just insisted that it was too early to say anything. But he was working on it.

‘Trust me,' he said, giving me a hug. ‘Come on, let's forget that I ever said anything.' He took the carriers of food into the kitchen to sort out the meal.

I went on a little tour of investigation round the flat. The tiny bedroom that had been planned for me, now housed his darkroom. I peeped inside. The smell of the chemicals brought on a great wave of nostalgia. I remembered how Dad and I used to develop films together in the old days. He'd let me take the tongs and dip the prints into the trays of developer. I loved the way a shadowy face would form, appearing as if by magic through the liquid, getting more and more contrast until, sharp and glossy, the print was ready to hang up to dry. Dad seemed to have lost interest in photography recently. But today he had some black and white prints hanging on their little pegs.

‘Hey, you're doing your own developing again,' I called to him, trying to make them out in the gloom. There was one of me with Mum and Dad on a holiday we'd had long long ago. Someone must've taken
it for us. I looked about six, standing in front, grinning with a front tooth missing. Mum and Dad were behind. Dad had his arm round Mum. They looked really happy.

Dad came to the door and looked in.

‘It was good, that holiday, wasn't it?' I prompted.

‘Yeah,' he said. ‘Yeah, it was.' Then he abruptly changed the subject. ‘How about lunch then? Hungry? I'm famished.'

‘OK,' I said, following him into the kitchen. ‘So what have you got?'

‘Health food,' he said. ‘I'm on a diet.'

‘You? On a diet?'

With a flourish he emptied out the carriers on to the kitchen table. There was a plastic bag of prewashed salad, a jar of beetroot, a bunch of celery, a bag of carrots and some apples.

‘
Health
food! You're turning into a rabbit.'

We spent the next half hour scraping and chopping until we'd made a huge mixed salad. Dad poured some oil and vinegar dressing over it. We ate it with hot nut bread. It was yummy.

‘How are you and your Mum managing?' asked Dad as we finished our meal. ‘For money I mean?'

It was good to hear he cared. ‘We're OK. Of
course the car's on its last legs.'

‘I'll see what I can do. Your mum still out a lot?'

‘Only at her rehearsals. She seems to really enjoy it. I guess it gets her out to meet people.'

‘What, like other blokes?' he asked.

I paused. From what Mum had said, it sounded as if most of the other actors were women, but I wasn't going to tell him that. A little competition never did any harm.

‘I haven't actually met any of the other actors yet,' I said. ‘But they sound like Mum's kind of people. Into books and stuff, you know.'

‘Uh-huh. So, what have you been up to then?' asked Dad as he put the kettle on to make coffee.

‘Oh, nothing much. Getting to know the neighbours.'

‘Anyone your age?'

‘Not really.'

‘Your mum said there's a boy on the third floor.'

(They
had
been communicating, then.) ‘Oh, that's
Cedric
.'

‘What's wrong with him?'

‘Nothing. He's not my type, that's all. I've set him up with Clare as a matter of fact.'

‘Is he Clare's type?'

‘Umm, I reckon with a bit of fine tuning, he could be.'

‘Fine tuning?'

‘I'm working on it.'

He gave me a sideways look. ‘What about you? Don't you need a boyfriend?'

‘Not till I find complete
perfection
. No.'

‘That's my girl.'

We finished the afternoon with a walk in Dad's local park. I gave him a crash course in aerobic-walking. We were halfway round our second circuit and he was steaming on ahead when I noticed he was turning red in the face.