I Think I'll Just Curl Up and Die (8 page)

‘Mine,' he said proudly.

‘Pardon?' said Chelsea and her mum in unison.

Barry beamed proudly.

‘Let me introduce you to the Soup Kitchen. “Soup up your lunch hours with Gee's Ham and Pea.” I'm taking it round all the industrial estates and office complexes selling Soup to Go. Good, eh? Come in and I'll tell you all about it.'

Late that night, over on Billing Hill, Jon was lying awake wishing he was seventeen and had a fast car. Then Sumitha would want to be with him.

Next door, Jemma was crying into her pillow. She was fat, ugly and no one had danced with her all evening. What's more, Sumitha said she was getting like her mother. She'd have to do something about that. She couldn't end up like Mum. She had to get thin and get a life. She sat up, switched on the light and began drawing up a diet plan.

In Wordsworth Close, Laura was fast asleep, dreaming that Jon was painting her portrait. Except the picture turned out to be of dozens of fat little babies.

And in Thorburn Crescent, Chelsea and Ginny were battling in the kitchen.

‘And where are you going to make all this soup then?' shouted Ginny.

‘Well, here, initially, and then when I've made enough money, I'll rent a unit,' said Barry calmly.

‘Oh great. Oh terrific. So now my kitchen becomes a factory, does it?' shouted Ginny.

‘Dad, what about us? What about meals?' said Chelsea. ‘What will people think?'

‘For God's sake,' shouted Barry, slamming a saucepan lid
down on the counter top and running a hand through his hair, ‘I am doing it for
us
. You two apparently need to spend money like water - well, that's what I intend to make. Money. For months, you've been nag, nag, nagging about me getting a job. So, I've got one. Doing the one thing that really interests me. And if for a few months it means putting up with a bit of mess in the kitchen, then it's a small price to pay. Not,' he added sarcastically, ‘that either of you ever goes into it voluntarily anyway!'

‘But where did the money come from? For the van and all these pots and pans?' asked Ginny.

‘A Small Business Enterprise Loan from the bank.'

Ginny sighed. ‘More debts, then?'

‘Look, the banks are itching to give away cash. I'll pay it off in no time. This is going to be a success. I know it is.'

Ginny tried a smile. ‘OK. We'll give it a go. And I'm sorry. You're right. We do need the money and I'm proud you had the idea.'

‘Dad, promise me one thing,' said Chelsea.

‘What's that?' said Barry.

‘Don't take that van anywhere near my school. Ever.'

Now there's an idea, thought Barry. But decided it was best not to comment.

By mid-morning on Sunday, Jemma had enough of watching her mother and brothers making a show of themselves in the leisure pool at the Waterline Golf Country Club.

‘Why won't you come in, petal?' called Mrs Farrant from the shallow end, to Jemma's intense embarrassment.

‘I'm not swimming,' said Jemma.

Her mother climbed out of the pool and trotted over, water dripping off the frills of her ancient swimsuit.

‘But it's lovely,' she began.

‘Mum, I said, I am not swimming,' repeated Jemma.

‘Oh, sorry, petal,' said her mother, tapping her nose knowingly. ‘Not in front of the little ones. I see. Time of the month, is it?'

‘Yes, that's it,' lied Jemma.

In fact, Jemma had made a vow to lose two whole stone by Christmas and she was not about to parade about in a swimsuit until she looked slim and sylph-like, like Sumitha. Today she had dressed in black jeans, a black T-shirt and the baggiest sweater she could find – anything to hide her disgustingly bouncy boobs. She felt gross and boring and knew she looked like a globule of solidified fat. But watching her mother and brothers having such a good
time made her feel even more fed up, and picking up her book,
Weight Loss Without Worry
, which she had found in the newsagents when she went to collect the Sunday papers, she wandered off outside.

The club house was set in rolling parkland, once the grounds of an old manor house. Mr Farrant, who was already out on the course, had joined partly because he liked the sound of what the advertisers called,
‘this superb par 72 course, set among lakes and tumbling streams, affording an ever-changing challenge to the most discerning of golfers,'
but more particularly because when Professor Sir William Kentigan-Fry, leading light of the Pike Research Centre for Hearing Disorders had spoken at the Leehampton General Hospital he had mentioned that he was passionate about golf and a member at the Waterline. Andrew Farrant's great ambition was to move into research and if playing a few rounds with the great Sir K-F would help his cause, then he was not about to pass up the opportunity.

Jemma wandered past the paved veranda, where clusters of chattering women were seated at wooden tables, all looking very suave and slim. She ambled along a path behind the club house till she came to a clump of trees overlooking a small lake.

She settled down to read, pulling off her sweater to use as a pillow and shielding her eyes from the sun with her hand.

She had just got to page six
(FADE AWAY THE FLAB WITH FIBRE AND FIGS – a dieter's best friend is fibre, so eat: bran, baked beans, wholemeal pasta and figs)
when
something flew through the branches of the tree and hit her on the shoulder.

‘Ouch!' she shrieked, grabbing her right shoulder with her left hand and screwing her eyes up in agony.

‘Have I hurt you?' a voice said from behind a tree.

Jemma looked up to see a green blur. Her eyes travelled up a pair of green cord trousers to a cream and green sweater, a worried face and a mop of exceedingly untidy sandy coloured hair.

‘I really am awfully sorry,' said the face. Jemma rubbed a hand hastily across her eyes and refocused. A stockily built boy with glasses and a sunburned nose was gazing at her. ‘I didn't know there was anyone around here – I was just having a practice swipe, you see. Bit boring waiting for the old man to finish his round.'

He squatted down beside Jemma and surveyed her shoulder anxiously.

‘It's OK,' said Jemma. ‘I think I'll live. I'm probably not supposed to be over here anyway. I was bored too.'

‘Oh, yes, well – er … ' His gaze left her bruised shoulder and travelled down her T-shirt, lingering halfway.

Jemma grabbed her sweater and pulled it on. He was obviously thinking what a fat slob she was. She clambered to her feet and
Weight Loss Without Worry
fell to the ground. Face up. She stamped her foot on it, grabbed it and stuffed it up her sweater.

‘Oh I'm Rupert, by the way – Rupert Kentigan-Fry. Good book?'

‘Just revision – really boring,' said Jemma hastily. ‘I'm Jemma,' she added, thankful to be anonymous inside her sweater, ‘and I think my dad is playing golf with yours – is your father Sir William?' She had never met the son of a Sir before but Rupert seemed quite ordinary, except for the fact that he spoke like something out of a BBC period drama.

‘Yes, that's right – so is your father Andrew Farrant? The new chap at the General?'

‘Mm,' said Jemma, rubbing her shoulder which was beginning to throb rather badly.

‘I say, look, I mean, I ought to do something about your shoulder and all that,' said Rupert. ‘What say we go back to the club house and I'll buy you a drink and we can get some plasters or something?'

Jemma giggled. ‘I don't think a Band Aid is going to have much effect,' she said. ‘It'll be OK, honestly. But a drink would be nice.' At least she had someone to talk to. And someone male to tell her friends about.

Jemma followed him down the pathway and then froze. Heading towards her, arms flapping like a windmill in a hurricane was her mother.

‘There you are, petal – I was getting worried,' Mrs Farrant chirruped. ‘Daddy's nearly done, and then we can all have some lunch. Oh, er, and who is this?' She looked at Rupert enquiringly, as if expecting him to hand her his credentials.

‘This is Rupert,' said Jemma hurriedly. ‘Dad's playing with his father.'

‘Oh well now, isn't that nice!' gushed Claire. ‘I told you
that you would make a friend if you came along, Jemma, didn't I?'

Jemma cringed.

‘So you're Sir William's son.'

‘Yes, that's right, Mrs Farrant,' said Rupert.

‘I said to Jemma, the golf club is just the place for meeting a nice type of … '

Jemma interrupted hastily. ‘Mum, look – er – I think the twins are annoying that couple over by the barbecue,' she improvised.

‘Oh dear, naughty little boys,' muttered Claire and dashed off. Jemma sighed.

‘Sorry,' she muttered. ‘Mothers. Do you live round here?' asked Jemma as she and Rupert made their way to the bar. Stupid question, she thought. Of course he does or he wouldn't be here.

‘Yes, we live at Boughton Court,' he said.

‘Boughton Court? That huge stone house with the wrought iron gates?' Jemma gasped.

‘Yes, that's the one,' said Rupert in a matter of fact voice. ‘Oh look, there's Father and your pa.'

Jemma grinned to herself. She'd never thought of Dad as a pa.

‘So you've met Rupert, I see,' said Sir William, smiling and shaking Jemma's hand. ‘Did you get in some practice, Rupert – hit a few birdies?'

‘Oh, I hit a birdie, yes,' Rupert looked at Jemma, gave her a dig in the ribs and giggled.

Oh yuk, thought Jemma. Why did he have to touch my disgusting bulk?

They walked in silence for a bit.

‘You're awfully pretty,' said Rupert suddenly.

Jemma stared at him.

‘I was wondering,' said Rupert, ‘I mean, could I have your phone number? I'd really like to see you again. Perhaps we could go out somewhere,' he added.

Jemma's heart soared.

‘Yes – yes, that would be nice,' she stammered. He might not be David Beckham but he was male. And he seemed to like her. And he did have a very nice smile. And the sunburned nose would clear up soon.

She'd done it. Jemma Farrant had been asked out.

While the Farrants and the Kentigan-Frys were making small talk about the excellence of the smoked salmon sandwiches and the awkward sweep to the fourteenth hole, and Jemma was wondering how quickly she could lose another stone, Laura was at home making her feelings known in a somewhat less controlled manner.

‘I just want you to know that I think what you have done is positively disgusting!' she shouted as soon as Melvyn set foot inside the front door for Sunday lunch.

‘And good morning to you too, Laura!' he said with a twinkle in his eye. ‘I take it your mum has told you the good news.'

But Laura had stormed upstairs.

Laura fully intended refusing any lunch, but it turned out to be roast lamb and mint sauce followed by apple charlotte and ice cream and she didn't see why she should starve because of the debauched behaviour of her mother.

‘I gave notice on my flat today,' said Melvyn conversationally when Ruth had dished up.

‘Good,' said Ruth, nervously eyeing her daughter.

Perhaps, thought Laura hopefully, he was going to do a runner.

‘So when shall I start moving my stuff in here?' he continued.

Laura choked on a Brussel sprout.

‘You are
not
moving in here?' she exclaimed incredulously.

‘Well, of course – after all, your mum is my responsibility now, isn't she?' he said sweetly. ‘She needs looking after.'

‘But – you can't – I mean, there isn't enough room in this dump for Mum and me, never mind you,' she said, her eyes filling with tears. ‘Anyway, we're OK on our own. We don't need anyone else.'

‘Well, actually what I thought would be a good idea for us all was … ' began Melvyn while Ruth bit her fingernails and looked close to tears.

‘I don't care what you think,' screamed Laura, slamming down her knife and fork and shooting carrots all over the tablecloth. ‘You should have thought before you got my mum into this mess! But then with a pea-sized brain like yours, I don't suppose there is much scope for thinking!'

‘Laura!' pleaded Ruth. ‘Look love, it'll be … '

‘HELL!' screamed Laura. ‘That's what it will be. And I for one am not stopping around to see it happen. Have your hateful baby, slobber all over your toyboy. See if I care! I'm not stopping here a minute longer!'

She leaped to her feet. More carrots left the plate.

‘And where will you go?' enquired Melvyn calmly.

‘To my dad!' shouted Laura. ‘Because he loves me, even if you two don't! I shall go and live with Dad!'

And so saying, she stormed upstairs to her room.

Mrs Turnbull burst into tears.

Ten minutes later, Laura stalked into the room.

Ruth looked hopeful.

‘I've only come,' Laura said dramatically waving a rucksack in the air, ‘to say goodbye. I'm leaving. I am going to Dad's. And don't try to stop me.'

‘OK,' said Melvyn.

Ruth shot him a glance. ‘Look, why don't we … '

But Laura had gone.

‘What's for lunch?' asked Chelsea.

‘You can choose,' said her father. ‘Try my Carrot and Orange soup, or my Bouillabaisse, or there's some rather nice Leek and Potato.'

‘What? Soup? Is that all? We usually have a roast,' she said.

‘Oh, there's cold ham and cheese as well,' said her father. ‘And a lemon soufflé for afterwards. But I need to try out these soups before I hit the road with them tomorrow.'