Bedtime Reads Page 8

  ‘It’s true,’ his voice is strained. ‘Frances isn’t lying.’

  ‘Is she your girlfriend?’

  He doesn’t reply but she does. ‘We live together.’ She puffs out her chest and it makes her look ridiculous. Her pink and white dress is so tight it barely covers her bum and sunburnt legs.

  ‘I thought you’d have learnt your lesson with women, James.’

  ‘Lesson?’ Frances says. ‘What lesson?’

  ‘Didn’t you tell her about Claire?’ I ask him.

  He shakes his head. His amber eyes plead with me and I realise the power I have at this moment. I know I can destroy their relationship as I did with him and Claire. I know I can tell the truth and not even feel guilty. Why should a snake like James get away with it? But I stay silent. I keep my lips sealed only because of the hope in Frances’s eyes and the fact that she reminds me of Roger. They’re not that different. Both of them are overweight and nondescript and they have the same bewildered expression. It’s as if they can’t believe they have caught a beauty: that they’re dating a gorgeous person. It’s always been their dream and would have remained a dream - had the ideal couple stayed together.

  It’s only then that I feel a sense of justice. There’s a price to pay for being a beautiful person. People like Barbara, Claire and James will always be sexy, attractive and make heads turn. People will always want them.

  Now I look at Barbara sipping gin beside me and I feel the intense heat of predatory eyes watching her as she moves provocatively to the music, swaying her hips, gyrating and moving her shoulders.

  Men with their partners are glancing furtively at her body, appreciating her rhythm and I wonder what they are thinking: Does she move like this in bed? Does she like sex? Is she up for it?

  In my drunken hazy state I want to shout:

  YES.

  She’s a SLUT.

  Barbara is smiling at a guy across the bar but she leans over and says to me. ‘You need to get laid.’ She slides her arm affectionately around my shoulder and her warm spittle trickles against my cheek when she slurs. ‘It’s a waste you standing here with me. You should be up on the dance floor with the lesbians.’

  ‘At least I didn’t sleep with Claire’s boyfriend.’

  She recoils as if I’ve slapped her. Her cold and hard eyes narrow and she bites her curled lip.

  It was by chance I had popped into Claire’s house that night. Not realising her shift had changed and I found out James and Barbara were having regular sex. I caught them. I couldn’t hide my disgust and in payment for my silence James wrote the note. I watched him pack and he left immediately.

  Barbara had pleaded with him to stay with her but James and I knew it wasn’t an option.

  I had to protect Claire. She is like my own sister. Barbara may hate me but she is lucky. Even though she doesn’t deserve it she still has her daughter’s love.

  I know Claire would never have forgiven her mother.

  Dating for a Dad

  I type slowly. My fingers carefully stabbing at the keyboard. I hesitate briefly before reading it again.

  Personal profile:

  I enter Helen Bennett: dark blond hair, green eyes and very attractive.

  Characteristics: widow, two children, accountant, non-smoker and occasional drinker.

  ‘What are you doing Jake?’ says Anastasia, my seven-year old sister.

  ‘Could you get that Barbie out of my way?’ I push the doll away from the screen. I’m four years older and way too grown-up for her stupid toys.

  Describe yourself: honest, reliable and kind.

  Anastasia’s sweet breath is warm against my cheek as she leans forward to inspect the screen.

  ‘Who’s that?’ She points at a face - one of the dating profiles - a man with a beard. I scroll quickly through the hopefuls that are registered on the site to find a perfect partner.

  There seem to be hundreds of them.

  ‘Jake, tell me,’ Anastasia whines, twisting her small body onto the seat beside me.

  I ignore her.

  What type of relationship are you looking for?

  I shake my head. This was more complicated than I thought. I can’t write friendship, serious or marriage so I settle for what others have written: casual.

  ‘I’m finding you a Daddy,’ I whisper, flicking through photographs posted on the site. ‘But we mustn’t tell Mummy, it’s a secret - a surprise.’

  Anastasia is balanced precariously on the stool beside my bed. Her right hand clutches her Barbie and the fingers on her left hand twist the fine strands of her long blond hair. Her blue eyes shine in delight.

  ‘A real Daddy?’ she repeats. ‘A Daddy for us?’

  I read quickly. For a bit extra I can upgrade to premier membership then I can email at least six of the men listed in our local area. I have fifty pounds saved in my bank so I’ll pay her back. I’m not a thief. I’ve only borrowed her credit card and I’ve already replaced it in her handbag.

  What is she looking for? I type in: He must have a good sense of humour and be intelligent and kind. Then I add, he must love children and football.

  ‘Just don’t mention it to Mum. It’s our secret.’ I smile and close my iPad just as the bedroom door opens.

  ‘What’s going on, Jake? I’ve been calling you both for ages.’ Mum frowns suspiciously and then her gaze rests on Anastasia. She’s always a soft touch for the truth.

  ‘Nothing,’ I say.

  I know that look. The way Mum tilts her head to one side and half frowns, although her eyes are smiling. I know she wants more information and she’s very clever at reading me and Anastasia. Sometimes I see that same look on Anastasia’s face when she is quizzing me. I try not to squirm or fidget.

  ‘Bedtime,’ Mum announces. Anastasia scrambles quickly from the chair and, with Barbie tucked under her arm, scuttles from my bedroom.

  I’m saved so I sigh and flop back onto the bed.

  I listen to them in the bathroom. All the comforting night-time routines; clean teeth, clean hands and face. Running feet along the landing, pyjamas, a story and then kisses goodnight.

  I follow that same routine but on my own but I have long since given up the cuddling stuff. I am eleven and I’ve just started senior school. Only occasionally do I throw my arms around Mum and that’s when I think she looks sad or lonely and I tell her she’s the best mum and the nicest mum in the whole world. She often sighs and that’s when she snucks her nose into my neck and smells my skin. It tickles me and always make us laugh. Sometimes she hugs me with such fierce strength like she never wants to let me me go and I worry what she will do when we, Anastasia and I, leave home when we go to University.

  ‘What’s dating?’ asks Anastasia the next night as she lies sprawled beside me contemplating the photographs I’m swiping on my iPad.

  ‘Kind of like finding the right person to live with.’

  ‘To find a Daddy?’

  ‘Sort of but Mum must like him first before he can be our Daddy. If we can find him for her it will be a nice surprise,’ I explain.

  ‘I like surprises,’ said Anastasia.

  I run my eyes over the answers to my emails. Eric wants to know the ages of my children. He’s divorced twice and has six children. William is addicted to fast foods and judging by his photograph he isn’t telling any fibs in that department. Trevor hates football and asks if it would be a problem, and Bruce likes rock music and motorbikes which I think would be cool but I know Mum. She likes the comfort of her Audi that comes with her job and classical music. Two guys haven’t responded to my email so I am down to four guys that live in our area.

  Anastasia looks over my shoulder. ‘You said he’s going to be my Daddy so that means I can choose too.’ She’s tired and irritable. ‘It’s not fair you doing everything, Jake. I want to help with Mummy’s surprise. Why can’t I choose?’

  ‘Shush, keep your voice down. Okay, alright! So out of these four, who do you like the look of best?’ I swipe
the photographs on the screen of William, Eric, Trevor and Bruce.

  ‘Ugh, he’s ugly,’ she says, swiping Bruce aside. ‘And this one has a big nose.’ She points at Eric. ‘And he’s got no hair.’ Anastasia stabs William’s face with her Barbie doll. ‘What about him? He’s got brown eyes like yours Jake, like in the photos Mummy shows us of Daddy. Do you think he likes Barbies?’

  I stare at Trevor’s face and shrug. ‘He hates football.’

  ‘So do I. Anyway, I like him and so does Barbie!’

  ‘Well that’s settled then. That decision’s made.’ My sarcasm is lost on her but an idea was forming in my head and I suddenly knew what to do - I would test them all - it was easy. We would soon see which of them would still want to meet me or rather meet my mother.

  Trevor was the only one who took this change of personality seriously.

  In his email he asked why I (my mummy) suddenly liked the idea of sailing and rock climbing? Then he said that if she was willing to try anything then maybe he could too. He said he might even get to like football.

  So, maybe Trevor was the one. Divorced, no children and a Financial Director - whatever they did. Besides, Anastasia liked him.

  Later that night just before I go to sleep I’m mulling everything over in my head. I lie on my pillow with my hands behind my gelled hair and stare at the ceiling. I don’t know if I’m more excited about my first football game on Saturday at my new school or the thought of Mummy meeting someone special.

  It had been difficult to describe the type of man she would like to meet. I had tried my hardest to remember all the lovely qualities she said I’d inherited from my father. He died six years ago and although I think I remember him, his memory is sometimes faint. Anastasia whispered to me the other night that she’d almost forgotten him. She remembered him only because of the photographs and videos of us all together. I think we pretend to Mummy that we remember him more than we do because it makes her happy but I have a new plan.

  Six years.

  Mummy needs a real Daddy for us.

  On Saturday I beg Mum, almost dramatically on bended knees, to come to our school football match. It’s cold, wet and windy but fortunately she’s good-natured and ruffles my hair.

  ‘I’m very proud of you, Jake.’

  Later that morning she stands on the sidelines wrapped in her navy and white scarf and warm grey jacket. Beside her Anastasia jumps excitedly up and down. I keep looking up at them. Twice I’m tackled and by half-time there’s no sign of Trevor.

  The second half is a disaster. I’m worrying that Mummy will be furious when she finds out that I’ve been on the website and that I used her credit card. If Anastasia starts whinging and whining and says anything about wanting a Daddy then that will be the final straw.

  I feel sick.

  I miss the ball and fail to score although it’s an open goal.

  My throat constricts and I spit on the pitch. Glancing at them, Mum and Anastasia continue to shout encouragement but my heart sinks. We’re into extra time when a stranger arrives and stands on the touch-line. I recognise him from his photograph and I stop in the middle of the pitch to watch.

  Trevor is smiling at Mummy.

  They speak and she covers her mouth with her gloved hand, shakes her head and backs away. Trevor digs into his trench coat and pulls out his phone.

  Oh no, evidence of our emails.

  Mum leans over to look at them and angrily shakes her head. Anastasia reaches up and in her haste she knocks his iPhone to the ground.

  As Trevor bends to retrieve it, she points at me.

  They all turn.

  I barely hear the whistle. I seem to be stuck in the mud. I’m the only one left standing on the torn, wet turf. I can’t hear my mother’s angry voice. Her words are lost in the wind but I see how she grips Anastasia’s hand and holds her close.

  Trevor continues talking and occasionally they glance in my direction.

  Anastasia breaks away from them and runs toward me shouting.

  ‘You’re in big trouble now, Jake. And you’re grounded,’ she announces breathlessly. ‘But he’s got a very nice laugh and I think Mummy likes him.’

  Trevor stands with his hands in his pockets and he’s thrown his head back in laughter but Mum is still frowning. Above us a ray of sunshine escapes from behind the dark, ominous clouds and then Mum’s face creases into that peculiar crooked smile and she giggles.

  I groan and rub a grubby hand through my hair but they’re no longer looking at me. They are both still laughing with each other.

  Anastasia smiles up at me, slips her hand into mine and sighs loudly. ‘I think we’ve done it, Jake’ she says, squeezing my fingers hard. ‘I think I found us a new Daddy.’

  They Lied

  When did grown ups ever tell the truth?

  They lied about Santa, the tooth fairy and the bogeyman.

  They said I’d grow tall if I ate my vegetables and they said if I lied that hair would grow on my tongue.

  Why believe anyone?

  When I met my best friend Chloe at school she said she never wanted children and that men made her sick. We said we’d stay in touch forever but she went off to college and I never saw her again. Last I heard was that she got married and had a baby boy.

  George is the owner of the shop where I work. He I should get out more. He said it would do me good and I would meet people and make friends.

  ‘Go to the pub. Go to dancing classes. Join a gym.’

  I tried them all.

  It didn’t work.

  I was on my way home form work when I saw a handsome boy at the bus stop. I couldn’t look away. His skin was the colour of a rich eggplant blended with a smile as white as a cotton and eyes as green as coriander leaves. His back was rounded like a banana as if the box he was carrying was too heavy for his skinny frame and I wondered what was inside.

  While we waited for the bus I took a chocolate bar from my handbag. I peeled away the wrapper and enjoyed the sweet tangy flavours on the side of my tongue, sucking the coco between my teeth and lips.

  The bus was packed but I pushed my way to an empty seat at the back. The boy with the box followed me. I sat wedged in at the window but he apologised and I could see from the sadness in his eyes that he was sorry.

  ‘The box is too big to fit on my lap,’ he explained, and when another passenger pushed past him the corner dug into his skinny ribs and he let out a surprised gasp.

  I looked out of the window and watched the houses stop and start.

  The engine rattled up from the floor boards to my toes, through my legs to my stomach and my breasts.

  He tried not to look at me but he couldn’t help it and I would like to pretend that I was indignant and told him off for staring but I didn’t. Instead, I fantasised that he wanted me. I imagined his slim fingers with his ragged nails stroking me, and how my skin would tingle and tickle under his touch.

  When two boys across the aisle stared at the package he swung his knees nearer to me and his feet went on on tiptoe. The box swung into my space and rested against my thigh.

  He apologised. A lingering curry and garlic aroma from his lips were carried to my tongue and I swallowed thirstily at his exotic airborne spices.

  ‘What’s in the box?’ The smallest boy across the aisle asked. He stood only a few inches taller than the brown cardboard.

  ‘Don’t be nosey.’ His mother cautioned tugging on his hand.

  ‘What’s in it?’ The boy insisted.

  ‘Stop!’ The mother turned away to stop her second son from stamping on someone else’s foot.

  The small boy hit the box with his palm but the boy beside me pulled it protectively to his chest. He leaned forward and in a conspiratorial whisper, he said. ‘A dead body.’

  I laughed loudly and covered my mouth.

  The small boy frowned and pushed his way back between his mother’s legs and thumped his brother’s shoulder.

  The boy beside me grinned and winked
so I smiled back.

  On the busy street everyone was heading home. It’s the end of another tiring day and my feet ached. I heard scratching from inside the box and I turned quickly just as he pulled the box away from my thigh.

  The mother and the two boys left the bus at the next stop.

  My neighbour ignored them but I watched them from the window and the small boy raised two fingers. It looked like he said the F-word so I stuck out my tongue.

  My breasts jangled as the bus swung into the road again.

  A line of perspiration formed on the boy’s upper lip and he shifted his knees away from me. An old man sat down across the aisle and stared. His spectacles were uneven, unbalanced. They weren’t properly on his ears and his wispy hair was combed over his bald plate. He chewed something, not gum, maybe a soft toffee and spoke with his mouthful.

  ‘Looks heavy.’ He nodded at the box.

  ‘It is,’ Rashid agreed.

  ‘What’s in it?’

  Rashid hesitated. ‘My pet.’

  The man tilted his head studying the parcel. ‘Have you got air holes?’

  Rashid shook his head. ‘It’s only a short trip.’

  ‘What is it? A hamster?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  Their conversation was interrupted as people got on and off but once we’re trundling along again the old man persists.

  ‘Gerbil – or rat?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘What? What is it?’ The old man asks with the impatience that old people muster when they know they’re running out of time and they’re in a hurry and don’t want to be fobbed off.

  ‘Tell me, it’s my stop next.’ The old man leaned on his walking stick and grabbed the rail. ‘Well?’

  ‘Do you really need to know?” asked Rashid.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s a snake.’

  The old man laughed. ‘Stupid boy.’

  He hobbled down the aisle and as he climbed off the bus he looked back as if he wanted to remember the scene and conversation for the rest of his life – what was left of it.

  I thought of the snake inside the box nudging my thigh.