183 Times a Year (10 page)

Cassie watches my every mouthful, desperate to please.

You're just going to have to fake it. You can fake an orgasm so this should be easy, just make the same noises.

‘Mmmmmmmmm. This. Is. Soooooooooo. Goooooood,' I
say
with as much enthusiasm as I can muster.

I attempt to push a carrot onto my fork but fail miserably as it shoots across the table and smacks Cassie straight between the eyes. Connor cups his hand across his mouth and begins to snigger. Within a few moments this quickly escalates into a full blown belly laugh. I try to contain myself but it's impossible. Not even the wrath of Cassie can stop the laughter gushing forth. To make matters worse the carrot has stuck to Cassie's forehead like a perfect, if somewhat slightly large, bindi spot.

For the briefest of moments Cassie is mortified, her stony face threatening to explode into a terrible rage but much to my delight, she laughs. It is pure unadulterated laughter and a lovely moment; one that finds all three of us falling about in hysterics.

Suddenly the front door bursts open and Maisy stares at the three hyenas falling across the table. Her confusion quickly turns to disdain before she finally shouts,

‘Bloody idiots.' She then storms upstairs, slamming her bedroom door behind her.

A moment of silence descends; we all look at each other, then the guffawing begins again. We eventually pull ourselves together and agree a trip to the chip shop is a gastronomically good idea. Connor offers to go to the one on the corner while Cassie and I get stuck into clearing the bombsite that is now the kitchen.

Cassie is uncharacteristically sweet and asks me how my day at work was. I tell her about Amber but I know she's not really listening. She has an agenda and she's building up to it. I'm happy talking though, enjoying my daughter's feigned full and undivided attention. Is this a glimpse of things to come, or will she always hate me? I continue to prattle on when she stops me mid-sentence.

‘Mum?' she says, her face very serious. ‘Chelsea's like having a huge end of exams party and everyone – I mean
everyone –
is
going.
And guess what? I've been invited too,' she squeals.

Oh whoooopee doo, the great and mighty Chelsea Divine has dared to invite my lowly daughter to her dazzling party.

‘Isn't it great?' Cassie continues enthusiastically.

‘Isn't it just,' I reply. My internal voice is on full rant.

Hummmph, the Divine's, the kind of people Scott loved. The sort of people who measure success by money and material goods. In their world you're either a “somebody” or a “nobody.” They most definitely believe themselves to be part of the “somebody” camp.

‘Oh shut up,' I say out loud. Cassie swings round to look at me, slightly confused.

‘What?'

‘I said hurry up, let's get this dishwasher stacked eh?'

‘Oh, right, yeah,' Cassie replies. ‘The thing is Mum; I really need something new to wear. For the party?'

Oh god. My heart sinks. I've only just paid off the huge repair bill for the car. And what with never getting a penny from Scott for maintenance and no sign of a pay rise at work in over four years now we're not exactly flush. My good mood is quickly disappearing as is my temporary bonding with my daughter. I need a diversion. Maybe now would be the right time to bring up the smoking thing.

The door bursts open and Connor arrives with both arms full of delicious smelling chips. He slams the front door behind him with his foot. I sigh. Something tells me there's going to be a few doors slamming tonight.

CASSIE

Oh my actual god that's the last bloody time I ever cook anything for
her
again. I go to all that effort and all she can do in return is have a bloody go at me about bloody smoking. Maisy bloody
smokes
but no-one ever moans at her, mostly coz she doesn't get caught I suppose. But it's not bloody fair. I don't even bloody like smoking anyway. We didn't even talk about getting me a new dress either and time is seriously running out.

Joe is definitely going to the party so I have to look really good. Perhaps then he'll notice me again. Not that he gets a chance to breathe with Pheebs draping herself all over him lately. She knows I like him, why would she do that in front of me when she's supposed to be my BFF?

Whatevs all I need is the perfect dress and if I do my hair like Chloe from Towie then he might, just might, notice me again. I won't look as pretty as Chelsea but then again who does? It's hard to compete with perfection so why try? Besides, she doesn't fancy Joe, even though he fancies her, all the boys fancy her. But she's only really interested in older boys, with cars and money.

I look at Chelsea's profile on my laptop. She has so many selfies and each one has so many comments, all good of course, but then why wouldn't she? She is soooo pretty, so different to me. I wonder what it's like to have such a perfect life and be soooo perfect.

She's just tweeted.

Some people will do anything to fit in – but they never will!!! #Loser.

Oh my god, she means me, with the smoking thing. I know she does, and – OMG – she's only just posted it and already has 27 likes. How humiliating. Everyone will know it's me.

The thing is, she's right, I don't fit in and I can't work out if that's a good thing or a bad thing. Or a normal thing? I mean, I wanna fit in, so I know I need to have the right look, the uniform. That means the hair, the nails, the clothes and the make-up. I do like all those things I suppose but we don't always have the money for them so I make do and mend (yes I was listening in my history lessons).

What
I don't understand is girls like Natalie Wilson who makes herself sick to stay thin and Ella Maxwell who's saving up for a boob job. There's nothing wrong with the ones she already got as far as I can see. I know because I've seen a photo of them coz Aaron Taylor got her to send him a picture of them in a sext; which was well out of order coz then he sent it round to the whole year 11. I would have been like so humiliated, but she just laughed.

I really need to sort this dress out so that I can look just right. I'll ask Maisy – I mean Mania – if she's got anything I can borrow.

I knock and open her bedroom door. The first thing to hit me is the familiar whiff of fag smoke; the second is the state of her floor. I can't see her carpet for stuff. She has her back to me and is perched on her windowsill with the window open. She turns to look at me, blowing smoke from the corner of her mouth. Where's Mum now eh?

‘S'up,' she says.

‘Hey.' I reply. ‘You know Mum'll kill you if she catches you smoking?'

‘Let her try. I'll bitch slap her.'

‘Maisy?' Mum shouts up the stairs. ‘I can smell smoke? I hope you're not smoking in your room again?'

‘Oh shit,' Maisy says jumping, almost burning her fingers. She quickly stubs out the roll-up she's smoking and carefully pushes it back into the fag box shoved down her bra. She flings her window wide open making a wafting motion with her hand, willing the fresh air in whilst simultaneously spraying her room with body spray.

‘You sure bitch slapped her there, Mania,' I say laughing.

‘Piss off,' she replies. ‘Anyways, what'd ya want?'

‘I'm going to a party in a couple of days and I really don't have a thing to wear.

Can
I look through your stuff?'

She looks amused. ‘Be my guest, but you won't find anything there that fits in with that fake lot you hang round with.'

If she's trying to wind me up it's not working, mainly because I agree with her. I half-heartedly run my hands across the various items hanging in her wardrobe also aware that most of what she owns is spread out across the floor. I don't have a clue what's clean and what's not and it repulses me a little. Why is everything depressingly black? Why no colour?

‘Do you really think all my friends are fake?' I ask.

‘Duh! Are you really asking me that? Fake hair, fake nails, fake boobs, fake arse, fake tan, fake eyelashes, fake teeth, fake lips. Fake, fake, fake!'

‘They're not all fake.'

‘That bloody Chelsea Divine is. Everything about that girl is fake, including her personality. You only have to look at Malala Yousafzai to see how rank your friends are.'

‘Who's Malala Yousafzai?' Maisy sighs and rolls her eyes. For a moment she reminds me of Mum.

‘Malala Yousafzai,' she repeats, ‘the Pakistani schoolgirl who was shot by the Taliban for campaigning for girls' education.'

‘Oh yeah, I think I remember Mum talking about her. What's she got to do with anything?'

‘Are you for real? Malala nearly got herself killed trying to liberate the girls of her country. The only thing the liberated girls you hang round with want to do is out-bitch each other. They're all surface and no substance.' I throw her a quizzical look. She sighs heavily. ‘Superficial,' she says. ‘It's all about
“look what I've got,”
tashing off and getting drunk.'

Maisy's not a girl of many words (I think she only says about three a week to Mum) but when she does go off on one you realise she is quite a deep thinker.

‘You like tashing off, and partying,' I remind her.

She
grins. ‘Yeah well, that's true. And there isn't anything particularly wrong with that in itself. It's just you don't need to do it with fake boobs or eyelashes or hair and you definitely don't need designer clothes and bags. Why can't they just be themselves?'

‘Like you?' I ask. As far as I know Maisy isn't a natural blackhead and wasn't born with black lips and eyes.

Her face has become moody again. ‘Humph!' she snorts. ‘My look is art, an expression of who I am. It's a non-conformist, two fingers in yer face to the stereo typical view of what a woman should look like. The kind of look constantly perpetuated by society and the media and those bloody dumb reality shows you always watch.'

‘Me? You watch em more than me.' Maisy grins at me again, loudly smacking chewing gum between her lips.

‘Yeah,' she says shrugging her shoulders. ‘Well whatevs, it's coz they're funny. All the women are stupid, narcissistic bitches and its compelling viewing coz they're a constant reminder of something I don't want to be.'

‘Like your Mum?' I ask sheepishly, half expecting a fist in my face but Maisy merely shrugs her shoulders again and looks away.

‘She's just a bitch who should never have had kids. I'm glad she left. Me and Dad are better off without her.'

‘How's the job going?'

‘S'okay I s'pose. The boss is a bit of a bitch.'

I suddenly have a brilliant idea.

‘Do you get staff discount?' I ask. Maisy lowers her head and looks at me through her heavily black lined eyes.

‘You, at Goth Shock? Really?'

She's right of course; I wouldn't be seen dead in there. Actually that's the only way I would fit in such a place, if I was like dead.

I've
never actually set foot in the shop before but I've walked past it a couple of times. It's a dark, foreboding place, pulsating with what I think is loud music but sounds more like screaming to me. The staff dress positively satanic and the mannequins clearly represent their Goth style window dressers. I shiver at the thought. I look at Maisy and shake my head. We both laugh.

‘Nah!' we both say at the same time.

Ooh I've got a text. It must be Pheebs responding to mine. I asked her if she wanted to go shopping with me tomorrow to sort this bloody outfit out.

No babe, can't go with u, have already promised 2 go with Chelsea xxx

Oh, right, thanks for asking me. Why can't I go with you? Why do I feel like I'm on the outside all the time? What's wrong with me? What's right with me for that matter?

Right, she can skate round this all she wants but Mum really is going to have to help me sort this out. I cooked for her for god's sake, so she like owes me. Big time.

I fling Maisy's bedroom door open. ‘Mum,' I shout. ‘MUUUUUUUM!'

Chapter 9

Q – WHAT?

LIZZIE

I can't quite believe I got out of shopping with Cassie. Who knew they'd need me to cover extra hours at the library.

Such a shame.

Okay it's true. The theme music from the Jaws film does start to play in my head whenever Cassie suggests we go shopping together. This, I believe, is for two reasons.

The first is simply that the fantasy of mother and teenage daughter shopping trips is a world away from the reality. I did, I confess, fantasise a little about such trips on that beautiful morning Cassie was born. I projected forward in time to a place where she was grown, and mini films of our time together would run and re-run across my thoughts. I pictured us on lovely girly shopping expeditions, full of smiles and laughter. Not that I'm particularly good at or enjoy shopping but it would be more about the bonding experience between mother and daughter.