Read Online The Ice Cream Girls by Dorothy Koomson - Free Book Online
Authors: Dorothy Koomson
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believe you let my children eat it, either,’ I say. The sight of it, right now, after what just happened is stomachwrenchingly disgusting.
‘It’s the best thing in the world,’ Evan says, through a mouthful of white filth. I want so much to slap it out of his hand, snatch Con’s away and dump them both in the bin. Out of sight, out of mind.
‘I’m going to wash my hands,’ I say, and turn to leave the kitchen.
‘Hang on, where’s Verity?’
‘Upstairs,’ I say. I had been hoping to break the news to him gently but now . . .
‘Did you two have a row?’ Evan asks, his voice full of concern, even though he only has eyes for the ice cream in his hand. Watching it ooze and melt all over their hands makes me want to vomit.
‘No, but she is a bit upset.’
‘Why? What happened? Hideous bridesmaid dress?’
‘No . . . On the way back we . . . kind of . . . were stopped by the police.’
‘You were what ?’ he asks, finally able to tear his attention away from the confection in his hand.
Con’s eyes widen in awe. ‘Wow,’ he breathes.
‘Apparently I was speeding,’ I say. ‘I was overtaking and didn’t slow down soon enough. So the police car that seemed to appear from nowhere pulled us over. And Vee got upset because he said he could take me down to the station or breathalyse me.’
‘ You who barely makes it over thirty, even in a fifty zone, were speeding? Now that’s one for the record books. Poor kid must have been terrified. I’ll go see if she’s all right.’ He stands up and comes towards me, still holding that thing in his hand. ‘Here,’ he shoves it into my hand, ‘hold this.’
I stare at it: the feel of it under my fingers, the sweet vanilla smell of it in my nostrils is turning my stomach. ‘I haven’t washed my hands,’ I tell him. ‘I’ll have to bin this now, you can’t eat it.’
‘Don’t you dare, woman!’ he calls from the foot of the stairs. ‘Con, you’re in charge – if she tries to bin it, come and get me.’
‘OK, Dad,’ Con calls back.
Any second I’m going to throw up on it. I’m going to cover it in bile and lunch’s Spanish omelette, and then he definitely won’t be able to eat it.
‘Here,’ I say, thrusting it at my son, ‘you look after it for your dad, I really need to wash my hands.’
I rush to the sink, turn the hot water tap on full, hoping for enough stored hot water to cleanse away the stickiness it has slicked on my hands, and the near-invisible stain it has left upon my skin.
‘What did the handcuffs feel like, Mum?’ Conrad asks through a mouthful of ice cream.
I stop for a minute, wanting to ask him what he knows, who told him that I’d ever had handcuffs linked around my wrists – then I remember what he means. ‘He didn’t handcuff me, sweetheart,’ I say, scrubbing again and again at my hands.
‘Oh. What’s it like in a police car?’
It’s like being buried alive, and knowing you’re being driven to a place where they’ll bury you alive again. ‘He didn’t put me in a police car.’
‘Oh. Did he at least talk on his radio thingy about you?’
Not while I was there. I’ll bet he’ll mention it to a few others, though. I’ll bet they’ll all be on the look out for my car after this. ‘No, love. But it did crackle a bit.’
‘Oh.’ My eight-year-old is deflated, disappointed – for one moment in time he thought I was exciting, that he’d have a good story to tell his friends about his boring mum suddenly becoming interesting. I am not. I am dull and I am proud of that fact.
I am still trying to get the ice cream off my hands. Physically it is gone, but it is still there in other ways, staining my flesh in the same way that blood does by hiding down in the little ridges of the skin.
I often think that my hands will never be clean, that no matter how long I wash them for they’ll always look how they did in the continuous reflection I saw in the bridal shop: they’ll always
‘It’s the best thing in the world,’ Evan says, through a mouthful of white filth. I want so much to slap it out of his hand, snatch Con’s away and dump them both in the bin. Out of sight, out of mind.
‘I’m going to wash my hands,’ I say, and turn to leave the kitchen.
‘Hang on, where’s Verity?’
‘Upstairs,’ I say. I had been hoping to break the news to him gently but now . . .
‘Did you two have a row?’ Evan asks, his voice full of concern, even though he only has eyes for the ice cream in his hand. Watching it ooze and melt all over their hands makes me want to vomit.
‘No, but she is a bit upset.’
‘Why? What happened? Hideous bridesmaid dress?’
‘No . . . On the way back we . . . kind of . . . were stopped by the police.’
‘You were what ?’ he asks, finally able to tear his attention away from the confection in his hand.
Con’s eyes widen in awe. ‘Wow,’ he breathes.
‘Apparently I was speeding,’ I say. ‘I was overtaking and didn’t slow down soon enough. So the police car that seemed to appear from nowhere pulled us over. And Vee got upset because he said he could take me down to the station or breathalyse me.’
‘ You who barely makes it over thirty, even in a fifty zone, were speeding? Now that’s one for the record books. Poor kid must have been terrified. I’ll go see if she’s all right.’ He stands up and comes towards me, still holding that thing in his hand. ‘Here,’ he shoves it into my hand, ‘hold this.’
I stare at it: the feel of it under my fingers, the sweet vanilla smell of it in my nostrils is turning my stomach. ‘I haven’t washed my hands,’ I tell him. ‘I’ll have to bin this now, you can’t eat it.’
‘Don’t you dare, woman!’ he calls from the foot of the stairs. ‘Con, you’re in charge – if she tries to bin it, come and get me.’
‘OK, Dad,’ Con calls back.
Any second I’m going to throw up on it. I’m going to cover it in bile and lunch’s Spanish omelette, and then he definitely won’t be able to eat it.
‘Here,’ I say, thrusting it at my son, ‘you look after it for your dad, I really need to wash my hands.’
I rush to the sink, turn the hot water tap on full, hoping for enough stored hot water to cleanse away the stickiness it has slicked on my hands, and the near-invisible stain it has left upon my skin.
‘What did the handcuffs feel like, Mum?’ Conrad asks through a mouthful of ice cream.
I stop for a minute, wanting to ask him what he knows, who told him that I’d ever had handcuffs linked around my wrists – then I remember what he means. ‘He didn’t handcuff me, sweetheart,’ I say, scrubbing again and again at my hands.
‘Oh. What’s it like in a police car?’
It’s like being buried alive, and knowing you’re being driven to a place where they’ll bury you alive again. ‘He didn’t put me in a police car.’
‘Oh. Did he at least talk on his radio thingy about you?’
Not while I was there. I’ll bet he’ll mention it to a few others, though. I’ll bet they’ll all be on the look out for my car after this. ‘No, love. But it did crackle a bit.’
‘Oh.’ My eight-year-old is deflated, disappointed – for one moment in time he thought I was exciting, that he’d have a good story to tell his friends about his boring mum suddenly becoming interesting. I am not. I am dull and I am proud of that fact.
I am still trying to get the ice cream off my hands. Physically it is gone, but it is still there in other ways, staining my flesh in the same way that blood does by hiding down in the little ridges of the skin.
I often think that my hands will never be clean, that no matter how long I wash them for they’ll always look how they did in the continuous reflection I saw in the bridal shop: they’ll always
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