she’d still be in bed. Or lying on the sofa in one of Dad’s shirts. Eating cornflakes from the box, then lying defiantly in the crumbs. Saying she was too tired to clean. Mrs. Hickman hoovering around her and muttering under her breath.
Highly strung, Gran called it. But I know what she really thought. What everyone thought. And I think of Mental Nigel, sitting outside the launderette, counting red cars and eating candy. And for one brief moment, I’m glad I’m nothing like her.
Mick Jagger has faded into the low electricity hum of the speakers. The back door slams and I hear Alfie’s voice singing through the house. Then Gran’s restrained, clipped vowels. So different from me and Alfie.
Then Dad.
“Jude!”
“Yeah.”
I down the last few mouthfuls of warm, flat Coke and look again at my reflection. Wishing someone else were staring back. But it’s still me.
“Jude, darling.”
“Hi, Gran.”
She kisses me on both cheeks, like the French girl I am not, her lips never once coming into contact with my skin. I can smell soap and coffee and Nina Ricci. Dressed in cream linen, she is immaculate. Out of place in our cramped, mismatched living room.
She isn’t staying with us. Now she has the excuse that there’s no room. But even before we moved, she’d find some reason to book a hotel. Said the farm gave her hay fever. “They’re cows, not crops,” Dad said. But Mum just laughed and said, “Let her waste her money.”
“So, you’ve been helping Edward and his mother.”
I feel Dad’s eyes on me. Don’t-you-daring me. I smile at Gran. “Yes. Sorry I missed you earlier.”
“Oh, never mind. We’ve had a splendid time, haven’t we, Alfie?”
“We got ice cream dipped in chocolate, and Gran says I can go to the hotel later and swim in the pool.”
“Does she, now?” says Dad.
Gran raises a plucked, arched eyebrow at him that says,
And?
But Alfie doesn’t see it. “It’s made of salt water. Did you know that salt actually makes you float? In the Dead Sea you actually float on top of the water because it’s, like, so salty.”
“I didn’t know that, Alfie,” says Dad. Lying again. Twice in one morning. Alfie looks pleased. So does Gran. One point for her.
“You must come too, Jude. We can have tea on the lawn.”
I hear Stella laugh in my head and force a smile. “Thanks. Maybe.” Maybe not.
“So, how were the exams, darling?” Gran perches on the edge of the sofa, tensing in case some neglected spill seeps through her trouser suit. “Have you thought about university yet? Your father tells me Edward is going to King’s.”
“Give her a chance.” Dad glances over at me. “She’s only just done her GCSEs.”
But Gran ignores that fact. “It pays to think ahead, Tom. You know they have summer programs at Cambridge for less fortunate pupils. To give them a taste. She —”
“She goes to a bloody three-thousand-pounds-a-term girls’ school. I’d say she’s more than fortunate.”
Gran stiffens.
“Dad swore. Dad, you swore.” Alfie is delirious with forbidden things.
“Sorry, Alfie . . . Margaret.” He nods at Gran.
“I’m only thinking of Jude.” Gran holds up her hands.
“I know.”
“She has such potential. . . .”
“
She
is in this room,” I point out.
But Gran doesn’t hear me. Or chooses not to. “And then there’s her acting.”
“That’s a hobby. Not a career.”
“That’s not what Charlotte thought . . .”
Dad flinches. Mum’s name hanging solid between them. Like a swearword. And I think,
She’ll stop now; she has to.
But she doesn’t.
“. . . not what you used to think. She could have been someone, you know. If —”
“She
was
someone,” Dad says deliberately, his face reddening with anger.
“Dad,” I plead softly. Desperately. “Stop it.” I don’t want to hear this. Not now. I’m too tired. But he ignores me.
He and Gran blur into one noise. “Don’t understand . . . never accepted . . . blame me . .
Highly strung, Gran called it. But I know what she really thought. What everyone thought. And I think of Mental Nigel, sitting outside the launderette, counting red cars and eating candy. And for one brief moment, I’m glad I’m nothing like her.
Mick Jagger has faded into the low electricity hum of the speakers. The back door slams and I hear Alfie’s voice singing through the house. Then Gran’s restrained, clipped vowels. So different from me and Alfie.
Then Dad.
“Jude!”
“Yeah.”
I down the last few mouthfuls of warm, flat Coke and look again at my reflection. Wishing someone else were staring back. But it’s still me.
“Jude, darling.”
“Hi, Gran.”
She kisses me on both cheeks, like the French girl I am not, her lips never once coming into contact with my skin. I can smell soap and coffee and Nina Ricci. Dressed in cream linen, she is immaculate. Out of place in our cramped, mismatched living room.
She isn’t staying with us. Now she has the excuse that there’s no room. But even before we moved, she’d find some reason to book a hotel. Said the farm gave her hay fever. “They’re cows, not crops,” Dad said. But Mum just laughed and said, “Let her waste her money.”
“So, you’ve been helping Edward and his mother.”
I feel Dad’s eyes on me. Don’t-you-daring me. I smile at Gran. “Yes. Sorry I missed you earlier.”
“Oh, never mind. We’ve had a splendid time, haven’t we, Alfie?”
“We got ice cream dipped in chocolate, and Gran says I can go to the hotel later and swim in the pool.”
“Does she, now?” says Dad.
Gran raises a plucked, arched eyebrow at him that says,
And?
But Alfie doesn’t see it. “It’s made of salt water. Did you know that salt actually makes you float? In the Dead Sea you actually float on top of the water because it’s, like, so salty.”
“I didn’t know that, Alfie,” says Dad. Lying again. Twice in one morning. Alfie looks pleased. So does Gran. One point for her.
“You must come too, Jude. We can have tea on the lawn.”
I hear Stella laugh in my head and force a smile. “Thanks. Maybe.” Maybe not.
“So, how were the exams, darling?” Gran perches on the edge of the sofa, tensing in case some neglected spill seeps through her trouser suit. “Have you thought about university yet? Your father tells me Edward is going to King’s.”
“Give her a chance.” Dad glances over at me. “She’s only just done her GCSEs.”
But Gran ignores that fact. “It pays to think ahead, Tom. You know they have summer programs at Cambridge for less fortunate pupils. To give them a taste. She —”
“She goes to a bloody three-thousand-pounds-a-term girls’ school. I’d say she’s more than fortunate.”
Gran stiffens.
“Dad swore. Dad, you swore.” Alfie is delirious with forbidden things.
“Sorry, Alfie . . . Margaret.” He nods at Gran.
“I’m only thinking of Jude.” Gran holds up her hands.
“I know.”
“She has such potential. . . .”
“
She
is in this room,” I point out.
But Gran doesn’t hear me. Or chooses not to. “And then there’s her acting.”
“That’s a hobby. Not a career.”
“That’s not what Charlotte thought . . .”
Dad flinches. Mum’s name hanging solid between them. Like a swearword. And I think,
She’ll stop now; she has to.
But she doesn’t.
“. . . not what you used to think. She could have been someone, you know. If —”
“She
was
someone,” Dad says deliberately, his face reddening with anger.
“Dad,” I plead softly. Desperately. “Stop it.” I don’t want to hear this. Not now. I’m too tired. But he ignores me.
He and Gran blur into one noise. “Don’t understand . . . never accepted . . . blame me . .
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