Cookie (6 page)

This is a very simple but very special party game
, I printed at the top of my picture.
It can be played at very small parties by one person and one pet. It’s called Stroke the Rabbit
.

Then I sat cross-legged on my bed with my arms out as if I was holding an imaginary Lily. I stroked thin air until my arms ached.

I heard Dad’s car draw up in the driveway. I listened hard as he came in the front door. He wasn’t singing his silly Happy Homes song. He wasn’t dancing down the hall in his socks. It looked like he was in a bad mood. I decided to stay in my room as long as possible. At least I couldn’t hear any shouting.

After a long time Mum called up to me that supper was ready. I started down the stairs and went to go into the dining room, where Mum usually set the table.

‘No, no, we’re having supper on trays in the living room. Dad’s a bit tired,’ said Mum, taking me gently by the shoulders and turning me round. She gave me a little reassuring pat as she did so.

Dad was slumped in his chair, his shirt top buttons undone and his belt buckle loosened. He looked as if he needed to ease his head too. There
were
lines stretched tight across his forehead, pinching the top of his nose.

My tummy tensed but he gave me a surprisingly warm smile.

‘Hello there, little Beauty. What have you been up to, eh?’

‘I’ve just been doing my homework, Dad,’ I said.

‘That’s my clever girl,’ Dad said, sighing. ‘You come and cheer your old dad up now. I’ve spent the whole day arguing with jobsworths who won’t budge an inch and it’s doing my head in. Tell me about
your
day, darling. What did you get up to with all your chums?’

I took a deep breath and launched into an utterly fictitious account of my day with my best friend Rhona. Mum served us Marks and Spencer’s spaghetti bolognese while I nattered on about Rhona and me making up a dance routine together and everyone clapping. I was getting a little carried away as I couldn’t dance to save my life but Dad seemed to believe me.

‘That’s my girly!’ he said happily.

‘Will Rhona be having dancing at her party tomorrow?’ Mum said.

‘I don’t know. Maybe,’ I said cautiously. ‘It says wear casual clothes on the invitation. Oh, and we’re supposed to take our swimming costumes too.’

‘Have they got their own pool then?’ said Dad. ‘Where does she live, in Groveland Park? Most of the houses there have pools, but they’re all the size of postage stamps. I bet you’ll just sit on the edge and swish your tootsies in the water.’

‘I wish they’d say exactly what they mean by “casual”’,’ said Mum. ‘Does that mean you wear your jeans?’

‘Beauty’s not wearing jeans to a
party
,’ said Dad. ‘No, she’ll wear her little pink number.’

I stopped eating. Dad had taken me to one of his golf dinner and dances at Christmas. He’d insisted on buying me an elaborate bridesmaid-type satin dress with gauzy puff sleeves and ruching and frills flouncing everywhere. I looked truly terrible in it, like I was wearing an old lady’s eiderdown.

I imagined the remarks that Skye and Emily and Arabella would make.

‘
Not
my pink dress!’ I blurted.

Dad stopped eating too. And Mum.

‘What’s the matter with your pink dress?’ said Dad. ‘It cost a small fortune from Harrods. Don’t you like it?’

I forced a smile.

‘Oh I love love love it, Dad,’ I said. My voice went high and squeaky I was trying so hard. ‘That’s precisely the
problem
. It’s so ultra-gorgeous and
glamorous
that I’m terrified of getting it spoiled at the party. I could easily spill juice all down it or tear one of the frills.’

‘Not if you’re
careful
,’ said Dad, but he nodded approvingly all the same. ‘I’m glad you want to look after it. Still, no jeans, you don’t want to look like a dirty scruffy tomboy at this party. How about your pretty blue blouse and your little white pleated skirt? You look sweet in that.’

It was my second-most-hated outfit. They would still sneer and snigger at me – but it was marginally better than the pink eiderdown outfit.

‘Yes, good idea, Dad,’ I said.

‘Mum could maybe tie blue ribbons in your hair?’ said Dad. He ran his fingers through my long limp hair, sighing. ‘Couldn’t you
find
some rollers, Dilly, and give it a bit of a curl?’

‘Beauty would hate having those uncomfy rollers prodding her head,’ said Mum.

Dad wound spaghetti round and round his fork.

‘You girls have to suffer a bit for your looks,’ he said, chomping, his tongue and teeth coated with tomato sauce. ‘
I
know! Take her to the hairdresser’s Saturday morning, get
them
to primp and twiddle with her hair, do it up fancy-like.’

‘Well …’ Mum saw my desperate expression. ‘I don’t think we’d be able to get her an appointment
at
the hairdresser’s at such short notice.’

‘Oh, Dilly, why are you always so hopeless? Look, get Beauty along there when they open and
insist
on an appointment. You could do with getting your hair done yourself, it’s a bit’ – he made wobbly gestures with his hands – ‘sort of
tired
.’

All of Mum looked tired nowadays. It was such hard work trying to keep Dad happy. She was very pale, with violet circles under her eyes. She still looked very pretty but like she hadn’t had any sleep for a week.

She looked at me apologetically. ‘OK, I’ll take Beauty tomorrow morning and we’ll both get our hair done.’

‘That’s the ticket,’ said Dad, breaking off a piece of bread and wiping it round his plate. ‘I want my girls to do me proud.’

‘We know that, Gerry,’ said Mum, with the tiniest edge to her voice.

Dad was up very early on Saturday to go to play golf. He crept around getting dressed and going to the bathroom, but tripped at the top of the stairs. His golf clubs made such a clatter that I shot out of bed and ran onto the landing, convinced the house was falling down.

Dad collected up his clubs, cursing furiously.

‘Oops, pardon my French,’ he said, when he saw me. ‘Back to bed, Beauty. I’m just off to my golf. Got to keep in with the right guys. This is the way your dad sorts out all his little problems. Just call me Gerry the Fixer. Ta ta, baby. Enjoy your party.’

I didn’t go back to bed. I pattered into Mum’s bedroom and slid in beside her. Mum put her arms round me and cuddled me close. Both our hearts were still thudding fast because of the noise. We were just drifting back to sleep when there was another crash from downstairs, and sounds of Dad swearing.

‘Oh God, that sounded like a bottle of juice. He’s jerked the fridge open so violently it’ll have fallen out,’ Mum murmured.

‘Can’t you even stack the fridge properly, Dilly? I’ve got cranberry juice all over my cream golf trousers!’ Dad yelled up the stairs.

I couldn’t help giggling – and Mum started spluttering too. She covered our faces with the duvet so he couldn’t hear.

‘Dilly!’ Dad shouted furiously. ‘Get that lazy butt of yours downstairs and sort this fridge out before I get back!’

He slammed out of the house, banging the front door. We waited, listening for the thud of the car door, the hum of the engine. The gravel crunched
as
Dad drove off. Mum and I sighed and lay flat on our backs, limp with relief that he’d gone.

‘I think he’s woken all the neighbours, not just us,’ said Mum.

‘Do you think he’ll still be cross when he gets home?’ I asked.

‘Not if he wins at golf,’ said Mum, yawning.

‘What time do you think he’ll be back? Will he want to collect me from Rhona’s party?’ I asked anxiously.

‘Maybe,’ said Mum.

‘So I’ve really got to wear my blue blouse and that pleated skirt?’

‘You look lovely in it, really. And we’ll get your hair all curly.’

‘Mum, they’re all going to laugh at me.’

‘No they won’t,’ said Mum. ‘You’ll look wonderful. They’ll be envious.’

‘You’re just saying that to make me feel better,’ I said, giving her a little shake.

‘Well, OK. I wish I
could
make everything better for you, Beauty.’ Mum paused, gently stroking my neck and shoulders. ‘Are you unhappy, pet?’

I took a deep breath. ‘No, I’m fine,’ I said.

‘Now
you’re
just saying that to make me feel better. Oh, lovey, I don’t know what to
do
. Your dad’s getting worse, isn’t he? But if I try to stop him he gets even angrier.’

‘I know.’

‘And at school – do they still tease you lots?’

‘Yep.’

‘Does Rhona?’

‘No. She’s always kind to me.’

‘Well, that’s great. Can’t you be friends with her?’

‘Mum! She’s Skye’s best friend. And Skye is my most deadly enemy. She hates me.’

‘Well,
we
hate
her
,’ said Mum. ‘And her horrible patronizing mother. When we got you into Lady Mary Mountbank she came up to me in the playground and welcomed me to the school like it was her own family house. And then she goes, “So are you Beauty’s big sister?” and then she gives this great shriek when I said I’m your mum. “You must have had her so
young
,” like I’m a child bride. Well, OK, maybe I
was
– but it’s none of her business, eh?’

‘I liked it better at Jenner Street Primary, Mum.’

‘I know, love, but your dad set his heart on you going to Lady Mary Mountbank. It
is
a really good school. You’ll go on to the Seniors, swan off to university, get a brilliant degree, have a fantastic career, whatever. I don’t want you to end up like me. I’ve never had a proper job. I was just a receptionist at Happy Homes – and I wasn’t even a
good
receptionist
. I was too shy to speak up properly and I kept getting muddled using the telephone switchboard. Your dad called me into his office all set to fire me only I was wearing some silly skimpy top and he got distracted and asked me out on a date instead.’

‘Maybe if you weren’t so pretty you’d have simply got the sack. You’d have found some other job and some other man, someone the complete opposite of Dad.’ I tried to imagine him. I saw Sam, as if I had a tiny television set inside each eye. ‘Someone gentle, who listens and lets you do what you want. Someone who never ever shouts. Someone who’s always always always in a good mood.’

Mum lay still, holding her breath as if I was telling her a fairy story. Then she gave a long sigh.

‘Yeah, right,’ she said sadly. Then she tickled me under the chin. ‘No,
wrong
. If I hadn’t married your dad I wouldn’t have had
you
, babe.’

‘But you’d have had
another
girl. You could have met a dead handsome guy and then I’d maybe be a
real
beauty.’

‘You’re my Beauty now – and we’re going to make you even more beautiful at the hairdresser’s.’

Mum was trying hard to sound positive. I
hoped
the hairdresser’s would be totally booked up, maybe with a bride and her mum and six bridesmaids and a flower girl – but they were depressingly empty when we went in the door. They could fit us in with ease.

My hairdresser was called Becky. She was very blonde and very slim and very pretty, almost as pretty as Skye. I was worried she’d act like Skye too, sniggering and making faces in the mirror to her colleagues as she shampooed my straggly hair and then twisted it into spiral curls, lock by lock. But she was really sweet to me, chatting away as if we were friends. She spent ages on my hair. When she’d finally finished dabbing at it with her styling comb she stood back, smiling.

‘There! Don’t you look lovely!’ she said.

I didn’t look lovely at all. My hair twizzled this way and that in odd thin ringlets. My ears stuck out comically in between the curls. I wanted to hide my head in her wastepaper basket and weep, but she’d tried so hard to please me I politely pretended to be delighted with my new-look corkscrew head.

Mum had a similar hairstyle but it really did look lovely on her. Her little pale heart-shaped face was framed with a halo of pale gold curls. Skye’s mother was actually right – she really did look like
my
big sister. When we went round the town shopping lots of men stared at her and a gang of boys all wolf-whistled.

‘No one would laugh if
you
were called Beauty, Mum,’ I said. ‘Hey, let’s swap names. You be Beauty and I’ll be Dilly.’

‘Dilly’s a duff name too. Dilys! I suppose my mum thought it was posh. Let’s choose different names. I’ll be … mm, what shall I be called? Something dignified and grown up and sensible.’ Mum giggled. ‘All the things I’m not.’ She saw the sign on the front of a shop. ‘How about
Claire
?’

‘OK. I’ll be Sara, after Sara Crewe. Let’s be best friends, Claire.’

‘Are we the same age then?’ said Mum.

‘No, I’m a couple of years older than you,’ I said firmly. ‘So I get to sort things out for both of us.’

Mum laughed. ‘Yep, I think you’ll be good at that,’ she said.

We played the Claire-and-Sara game as we went round the shopping centre looking for a good birthday present for Rhona. She was our friend, but only our second-best friend.
We
were best friends, and now we’d left college we shared a flat together and we both had fabulous jobs. Claire was a television presenter and Sara was a children’s book illustrator.

‘Maybe you’ll work in the same studio as the
Rabbit Hutch
show and you’ll get to meet Sam and Lily, Claire,’ I said.

‘Oh, I know Sam already,’ said Mum, acting Claire. ‘Don’t tell, but we’re actually dating.’ She looked at me a little anxiously. ‘Is that OK, Sara, or do
you
want Sam as your boyfriend?’

‘Maybe,’ I said.

‘Well, perhaps we’ll have to share him,’ said Mum, giggling. ‘I’ll go out with him one week and you can go out with him the next.’

‘And I’m going to draw Lily. Yeah, I’m going to make a picture book all about her.’

‘Do you think Rhona would like a book as a birthday present?’ said Mum, swapping back to herself.

‘I’m not sure what sort of books she likes,’ I said. I thought about it. ‘Do you think
she
’d like
A Little Princess
? It’s my absolute favourite book.’