And Baby Makes Two (2 page)

In my kitchen, my mum and Charley were pretty gobsmacked by the sight of me.

Charley was nearest the door.

“Wow,” said Charley. “Look at you!” Then he started to say “Happy Birthday, Lana,” but he only got as far as “Hap—”

She’d been staring at me in silence, more like a rabbit caught in the headlights than Nicolas Cage caught by love, and then she went off like a siren.

“What the hell are you supposed to be dressed up for?” she shrieked. “You’re not going out with us, looking like
that
.”

Charley glanced over at her. “Hilary,” said Charley. “Hilary, don’t start.”

“Go right back to your room and take that junk off your face this minute!” she roared. “And put on something decent while you’re at it.”

“I am decent.” My voice was as stiff as my eyelashes.

“Only if you’re a child prostitute,” she informed me. “We’re not going anywhere with you dressed like a tart.”

Charley knocked back his wine. “You look like you might be cold,” he mumbled. “Have you got a coat?”

“Never mind the coat,” she roared. “She isn’t leaving this house like that, and that’s final.”

Charley looked at his glass in case it had been magically topped up since he emptied it.

Sometimes I didn’t know why she put up with Charley. He was unattractive, overweight, filthy ninety-five per cent of the time, and he never wanted to do anything but go to the pub with his mates or watch telly. But sometimes I didn’t know why he put up with
her
, with her nasty moods and everything. This was one of the times I felt sorry for him.

“For Christ’s sake, Hil,” said Charley. “It’s Lana’s birthday. Let her be.”

My mother turned her glare from me to him. “It’s her fifteenth birthday, not her thirtieth.” She was pronouncing her words really clearly. She went back to glaring at me. “I’m your mother,” she informed me.

Big news.

“So what?” I screamed back. “I’m not a little kid any more. You can’t keep treating me like I’m a baby.”

She gave me her Mother Face. The Mother Face wasn’t pleasant and affectionate and understanding like the face of the mother in the Oxo ad. The Mother Face made it clear that
she
knew everything, and that she could say or do anything and it was all right because she once carried me around inside her for a couple of months. Big deal.

“I’m your mother,” she said again. In case I’d forgotten in the two seconds since the last time she said it.

“Not ’cos you wanted to be!” I screamed. “You never wanted me.” I knew this because I’d heard her talking to my nan about it when we went to Hastings in the summer. I was an accident. My sisters were already grown up; she’d really been planning to go back to college.

“What are you talking about? Of course I wanted you.”

“No you didn’t. You wanted to drink gin and throw yourself down the stairs.”

She rolled her eyes and sighed.

“If you don’t get that stuff off your face and put on something decent, I’m going to drink gin and throw
you
down the stairs,” said my mother.

“I’m fifteen,” I said in my coldest, most grown-up voice. “Everybody my age dresses like this.”

“Everybody your age does not live with
me
.”

“I don’t hear anybody crying.”

She slammed her glass down on the counter. “As long as you live in this house, you do what I say. Now go back to your room and put on some clothes.”

“No.” My lower lip trembled. “I’m not changing, and you can’t make me.”

The old witch cackled. “Oh can’t I?”

Charley said, “Hil, let it go, all right? She’ll be sitting down anyway, what’s the difference?” He gave me a weak smile. “You look really pretty.”

She looked like she wanted to hit him.

“Stay out of this, Charley. This is my house and my daughter!” The glasses on the draining-board started to rattle as the decibel level rose. “I don’t need any advice on bringing up children from
you
.”

Charley gazed at the wine bottle with real longing, but it was behind her shoulder and he knew better than to try to make a grab for it.

“Hil, for Christ’s sake. You’re getting all wound up about nothing. Let’s just get our coats and go, all right? Have a nice me—”

“I’m not going anywhere with her looking like that!” She was talking to him, but she was looking at me. “Am I making myself clear, Little Miss Babe Power? You can have cheese on toast for your birthday dinner for all I care.”

My teeth were clenched so tight I thought they might chip.

“That’s fine with me!” I shrieked back. “The only place I’d go with you is your funeral, you miserable old cow.”

That was when she hit me. Slap with her palm, right on the cheek.

“Don’t you talk to me like that.” She was shaking with rage. “I’m your mother.”

I put my face right into hers. “Well, I bloody well wish you weren’t. Do you hear me? I’d rather have Cruella De Vil as my mother!”

“The way you’re going, you may get your wish!” shrieked the Wicked Witch.

And I ran out of the room and out of the flat as fast as a person on six-inch heels could.

Happy Birthday to Me

If I’d had somewhere to go, I’d’ve gone there.

But I didn’t. We never saw my dad again after he left, so he was out. My half-sisters, Charlene and Dara, both lived south of the river, and my nan lived in Hastings, so they were out, too. So was Shanee, because even though she lived just down the road she’d gone away for the weekend.

I marched through the boring streets of northwest London on automatic.

I was back on the
Titanic
, pushing through the hysterical mobs, looking for Jack. I was wearing the bomber jacket he’d put around me. I was still soaked from the icy waves that broke across the ship as she sunk deeper and deeper into the endless water, but my soul was on fire. I would not die without seeing him one more time. “Jack!” screamed my heart. “Jack! Jack! Jack!”

A door blocked my way. I pushed it open with my last desperate burst of strength.

McDonald’s was warm and bright. A pub would’ve been more suitable for my mood, but I was too young to go to a pub, of course. Yet another disadvantage of youth.

My dress was stuck to me like a wet tissue. It was like wearing nothing and a really tight, uncomfortable bodysuit at the same time. Blisters were already throbbing on my feet. But I didn’t care. I didn’t even glance at myself in the glass door as I marched through, that’s how much I didn’t care.

There were maybe a dozen people in the restaurant, including the bored-looking kids behind the counter. I strode through the empty tables as if I was going up to get my Oscar, but instead of an Oscar I got a Big Mac, large fries and a chocolate milkshake. None of those things are exactly great for your skin, but I didn’t care about that just then either. What was the use of having good skin and knowing how to dress and wear make-up if you never had a chance to show yourself off a bit? There wasn’t any use, that was what. If my mother had her way, I’d still be wearing a Babygro and sucking on a dummy.

I sat at a table by the window, so I’d have something to do besides cry while I ate.

Some bloody birthday.

McDonald’s is all right, but it isn’t Planet Hollywood. Without the mothers and children it was pretty dead. Like a film set between takes. And it was too bright, brighter than usual. It reminded me of a hospital. You know, all cheery with yellow walls and fluorescent lights so no one will notice that they’re dying.

I turned my back on the hanging plants and the posters advertising the latest Disney blockbuster, and stared into the rain.

Happy Birthday to me, I thought as I took out my burger. Happy Birthday, dear Lana, Happy Birthday to me.

I bit into my Big Mac. It tasted like cardboard with ketchup and a slice of pickle on it.

A couple stopped on the other side of the window, trying to keep dry while they waited for a bus. They had their arms linked and he was holding the umbrella over her head. They looked really happy.

I felt like I was going to choke. I dropped my burger and bit my lip.

Don’t cry, I told myself. Wait till you get back outside.

I’d never thought about it before, but I reckoned that was why people in songs were always walking in the rain, so nobody could tell that they were sobbing their hearts out.

I opened my tiny tub of ketchup and dipped a chip in it, thinking about all the other girls in the world whose birthday was on the twenty-fifth of October. They were having parties with all their friends laughing around them. They had heaps of presents and everybody was hugging them and telling them how terrific they looked. Their mothers loved them. Then I thought about a girl I’d read about who died at her own birthday party. When I first read it I thought it was really sad and depressing, but just then, dripping in one corner of McDonald’s, I would have changed places with her like a shot. I mean, so she was dead, so what? At least she’d had a good time. It was a lot better than dying of pneumonia with the smell of stale grease on your breath.

I stuck my straw in my milkshake and took a sip. The couple on the other side of the window were snogging. The umbrella banged against the glass.

I gave up and let the tears come. Sip … sip … gulp … gulp … sip … sip … gulp … gulp…

I felt like a trapped animal, as if no matter what I did I was never going to escape. I was always going to be Hilary Spiggs’ little kid, being yelled at and told what to do.

I was crying so much that I didn’t even know he was there, sitting at the table beside me.

And then I heard his voice.

I looked over, trying to suck back a few thousand tears.

He couldn’t’ve been there long, because he hadn’t even unwrapped his straw yet. He was leaning towards me, holding out a pocket packet of tissues. He looked embarrassed.

“Are you all right?” He jabbed the tissues in my direction. “Your—I—”

I couldn’t speak.

Partly this was because I was trying to stop crying, but partly it was because of
him
. He wasn’t Leonardo DiCaprio, but he wasn’t bad. He was tall, dark and slim. He didn’t have spots, or wear glasses, or dress like his mother still bought his clothes. In fact, he was a pretty sharp dresser. I’d seen John Travolta on a chat show wearing a shirt almost the same shade of blue as his. And he was wearing a top-of-the-range Baby G. Plus, he was well over twenty. It was like
Sleepless in Seattle
the first time Tom Hanks’ and Meg Ryan’s eyes meet. It was a dream come true.

He leaned a bit closer, still waving the packet.

“Your make-up,” he said. “I thought you might need these.”

I was so touched by his incredible kindness and sensitivity that I nearly started crying again. I took a breath and smiled. It was the smile I always practised in the mirror: sunny but sexy. It was the best smile I had.

“Thanks.” I kept the smile, but looked down at the table so he’d know I was shy and embarrassed, too, and not in the habit of having nervous breakdowns in public. “I’m sorry—”

Our fingers touched as I took the tissues from his hand. Maybe if they hadn’t, I’d’ve mopped my eyes with his tissues and that would’ve been the end of it. But they did touch. Electricity shot through me. I didn’t want him to go.

“It’s my birthday,” I snuffled. “I had a fight with my mum.”

“Your birthday? Really?” He smiled. “Well, Happy Birthday—”

“Lana.” I laughed and snuffled at the same time. “Lana Spiggs.”

He held out his hand. “Les,” he said. “Les Craft.”

We just sort of stared at each other for a couple of seconds.

“So, which birthday is it?” he finally asked.

I didn’t hesitate for even a nanosecond. I didn’t want to put him off because he thought I was too young.

“My eighteenth.”

He smiled. “Well, Happy Birthday, Lana Spiggs.”

Happy Birthday to me.

Les Craft was twenty years old, kind, sensitive and intelligent (he had two A levels). He wasn’t exactly a babe, but he was good-looking in a quiet way, and he had two gold hoops in his left ear, and he did dress very smart. Plus, there was no grease on his hands. Les was assistant manager of the Blockbuster on the high street.

“I thought you looked familiar,” I fibbed. I wanted him to know he was special, not some dork a girl would never notice. “I go in there all the time.”

He smiled. In my opinion, Calvin Klein could’ve made millions if he bottled that smile.

“I know.”

He’d noticed me! I couldn’t believe it. I hadn’t noticed him – I didn’t really look at the boys who worked at Blockbuster because they tended to have bad skin and only recommend action films – but this attractive man had noticed
me
.

I told him all about my most recent fight with the Curse of Kilburn while we ate our burgers. He dipped his chips in the ketchup just like I did.

Les was very understanding. He had a mother, too.

“They have a lot of trouble letting go,” said Les. “My mum’s the worst. I won’t let my mum in my flat, because she’d start tidying up the minute she got through the door.” He smiled his break-your-heart smile. “And she’s always after me to cut my hair.”

“Oh, don’t do that.” It was long enough to hang sexily over his collar, but not so long that you’d mistake him for a girl from the back. “It’s lovely.”

Sunshine flooded McDonald’s.

“OK. I’ll tell my mum Lana likes it like this.”

I felt like someone was pouring hot fudge sauce through my veins.
Lana likes it like this…
It was as though we’d known each other for ages. That had to mean that I’d see him again.

Les stuffed the chip packet and his napkin and the straw wrapper into his burger box. There wasn’t one crumb or blob of ketchup at his place.

“I’ve got to get back to the shop,” he said. He made it sound like he’d rather go anywhere else. “Do you want to come with me and hang out?”

I didn’t have to think even once, never mind twice. “Yeah, sure.”

Let the old bat worry that I’d been raped or run over by a car or something. It served her right.