Freia Lockhart's Summer of Awful (20 page)

Dan laughs. “Nah, Kristy's trying to enlighten me about the joys of dance music before the party tonight.”

In the mirror above the hallstand I catch sight of my tight-lipped grimace and try to smooth it out before I speak. “Who's Kristy?”

“Steve's daughter. She's here for the uni holidays. She's pretty cool considering she's spawn of Stepdag.”

“She must be pretty persuasive, too, if she's got you listening to dance music.”

More laughter. “I didn't say it was working. Hang on, I'll go outside where I can hear you properly.”

I hang on. I practise the calming breathing Mr Naidoo taught us before the exams. I repeat my Hysterical Girlfriend resolution over and over in my head until I hear a door slam and Dan says, “That's better.”

“So, there's a party tonight?”

“Yeah, on Stepdag's boat, sorry
yacht
. He's invited some of his golfing buddies and their kids. Kristy and I are in charge of making sure the dance floor's full at all times.”

“You, listening to dance music?
Dancing
to dance music? Have you gone insane from all that fresh sea air?”

“Yeah, well, it's either that or sit on the beach, drinking goon with the local youth, who haven't exactly welcomed me with open arms. Are you all set for the picnic?”

“Change of plan – Mum's home so I'm staying in.” I try to keep my voice light, like it's no big deal, but my throat tightens with every word. “At least this way we can still be together at midnight, even if it's just over the phone.”

The pause before Dan speaks again is probably only seconds, but it feels like a long, empty silence. Long enough for me to anticipate what he's going to say, anyway.

“Geez, I'm sorry, Fray, but I don't think I'll get a phone signal out on the water. I can try to convince Steve to let me use his emergency satellite phone, if you really want me to.”

I really want you to. I really,
really
want you to. I want you to more than I want to be a world famous brownie entrepreneur, more than I want Gran and Rocky to get out of my room and go home, more than I want a lock on my bedroom door … “No, that's okay. I understand.”

“And that's why I love you! I told Kristy you'd be cool about it.”

I don't hear the rest of what he says. Something about whale watching or trail walking or tail twitching. I can't make out the exact words because of the echoing in my ears.
And that's why I love you … Why I love you … I love you
.

“Fray? You still there?”

“What? Sorry, there was some static on the line.”

“I said, I'd better go and make sure Kristy doesn't try to sneak anything from the Top Thirty onto the playlist. I'll call you tomorrow.”

“Okay. Have a happy new year.”

“You too. Think of me at midnight.”

By the time we sit down for dinner, my glow has worn off. Yes, Dan said “I love you”, but it was a phrase, not a sentence. Part of a bigger statement about what he loves about me, like he loves my baking and that I can sit through
The Matrix
without once asking what the hell is going on. It's still good. It's still something. But it's not
the
thing.

“You okay, Bloss?” asks Gran as she sets the last prawn cocktail in front of me.

Mum and Dad, who've been deep in conversation about where to take their post-radiotherapy holiday, stop talking and look at me.

“Freia, is something wrong?” says Mum.

“Yeah, she exists,” mutters Ziggy.

I force a smile. “I'm fine. This looks delicious, Gran.”

“It really does,” says Mum, dipping a prawn into sauce that's suspiciously close to the colour of Gran's lipstick. “I don't think I've had prawn cocktail since we went to the Lido for our first anniversary. Do you remember, Terence?”

Dad puts down his fork and reaches for her hand. “How could I forget? Back then we were so poor we could only afford starters. We went home and made beans on toast for our main course.”

“A classic dish never goes out of style,” says Gran. “We're having chicken and mushroom vol-au-vents next.”

The three of them reminisce about great dinner party dishes of the seventies and eighties for the rest of the meal, not noticing that I barely touch my food or that Ziggy is shovelling his into his mouth as if he's in a speed-eating contest.

As soon as he scrapes the last of the trifle from his bowl, Ziggy announces that he's going to Biggie's and will be back some time tomorrow. If I had any energy left, I'd make a scene about how there's no way Mum and Dad would've let me go off to a friend's place on my own at thirteen, and that they would have made me promise to be back first thing in the morning. But I don't.

Dad offers to clear the table for me so I can join “the ladies” (and Rocky) in the living room. It's obviously a delaying tactic – I saw the look he gave Mum when Gran let Rocky nibble trifle straight from her spoon.

“Tell you what,” I say, taking the tea towel from him, “I'll clean up in here and you can go and hide in your study till I'm done.”

“Is it that obvious that I'm avoiding your gran?”

“Do Ziggy's feet smell like roadkill rotting in the sun?”

Dad sighs. “I'm doing my best, but she's a very difficult woman. Young Daniel doesn't know how easy he's got it with your mum.”

“I'll remind him of that next time she quizzes him about drug use at his school. Now go, before I change my mind.”

Dad grabs Boris's treats from the breadbin and kisses me on the forehead. “Thanks, Sausage. I love you.”

At least someone does.

After washing up, I collect Dad on my way to the living room, where Mum and Gran are having a heated conversation about whether Mum lied about her whereabouts on New Year's Eve in 1973.

“I know you weren't with your cousin at the church social,” says Gran, topping up her sherry. “Gwen had a crisis of conscience when her mother died and told me that the two of you went gallivanting in town.”

Mum shoots me and Dad a can-you-believe-this look. “It was over thirty years ago. Does it really matter any more?”

Gran's stony expression suggests it does. Tonight, anyway.

“Why don't we play charades?” Even as the words come out of my mouth I can't believe I've said them. I hate charades, mainly because I'm hopeless at it. Gran's on her feet before I can add, “Or Monopoly.”

By eleven Gran's asleep in her armchair, having energetically acted out the title to every movie Sean Connery's ever made, and Rocky has his head tucked down by his wing. Our party is officially pooped.

Mum nods gratefully when Dad suggests it's time for bed.

“Let's leave them here,” says Mum, cocking her head towards Gran and Rocky. “I don't want the last sound I hear this year to be that bloody bird.”

We say our goodnights and happy almost-new-years in the hallway.

As lame as playing charades was, at least it took my mind off not being with my friends, waiting for the countdown to midnight and a kiss lit by the sparkly glow of fireworks reflected in the water. Now I'd be seeing in the new year on a sofa bed with an elderly cat. If how you start the year really does mirror how it will turn out, I'm in trouble. I try not to think about how Dan is spending his night, or who he's spending it with.

To distract myself, I pull one of the photo albums off Mum's bookshelf. We hardly ever look at our family photos, especially now that they're mostly stored on CD. About once a year – usually on Ziggy's or my birthday – Mum gets sentimental about how fast we're growing up and brings a few of the old albums into the living room after dinner. We pass them round and laugh at how Ziggy looked just like Winston Churchill when he was a baby, and at the scraggly red beard Dad tried to grow when he was made an associate professor.

The album I've selected is older than the ones we usually look at. It starts with Mum wearing her locket and blowing out candles on a cake shaped like a two and a one. Dad is on her right, holding back her long hair so that it doesn't catch fire, and behind him stands Gran, scowling with disapproval. Mum and Dad must've moved in together just after that because there's a whole series of pictures of a dingy-looking flat full of mismatched furniture, and the two of them beaming with pleasure at being there. Then photos of their uni graduation, in matching gowns and caps, and a camping trip on a beach with friends. Even though I know it's my parents in the photos, it's hard to believe that this young couple, laughing and playing frisbee are the same people that couldn't stay awake until midnight tonight.

A sheet of paper falls from the back of the album. It's a page from a notepad with ruled blue lines and a red printed margin, covered in Dad's semi-legible scrawl. The date at the top is 16 May 1977 – the year he and Mum started going out.

I know I shouldn't read it.

Even after reading it twice I can't quite believe that my dad – my cardigan-wearing, Volvo-driving dad – was once this romantic young man. And at the same time, I know that he still loves Mum just as much as he did then.

At 11.59 I poke Boris in the ribs and we watch the glowing red display of the digital clock flick over to midnight. He butts his forehead against mine, which Dad has always said is the feline equivalent of a kiss. I appreciate the gesture, but it's not quite the new year's smooch I had in mind. When he starts yowling to be let out a minute later, I realise I've mistaken his need to use his litter as affection.

I wake to the sound of laughter, something I haven't heard for a long time, especially not at eight in the morning. Usually, the only noise in the house at this hour is Rocky squawking for his breakfast.

When I get to the kitchen I understand why Rocky's not complaining. He and Boris are sitting on either side of the open breadbin, with the now-empty packet of Boris's cat treats lying between them. Rocky's face is tucked under his wing in shame. Boris is washing his bulging belly vigorously in an attempt to hide his mortification at being laughed at by Mum and Dad.