Can't Live Without (9 page)

‘Yes,’ I tell him. ‘Yes, whatever you say.’

Chapter 7

Thursday 14
th
June

I am having the week from hell. The woman formerly known as my mother is officially trying to ruin my life.

As if it’s not enough that she’s stopped me seeing Rob, grounded me, burnt down our house and everything in it, and left me destitute and desolate, now she’s gone and got herself a part-time job in Café Crème – which she knows is where I go to meet Rosie, and now I will never have any peace, never ever ever.

It’s not fair. It’s not normal! Mothers are supposed to be married (preferably to your father) and have normal jobs in offices or boutiques. In extreme cases they can work in a high-street shop, but only one you never go into, and only if it’s useful for a discount, say on computers or games. On no account can they work in any place their children or their children’s friends visit. Everyone knows this. It causes extreme psychological problems according to Rosie, whose mum doesn’t work at all because she has a husband who earns loads of dosh.

She didn’t even tell me. I find out like this: I go into town to meet Rosie, figuring mum won’t know I’m breaking my curfew because she’s probably out somewhere with Bonnie or that spooky bloke from next door. We meet by the bus station and walk up to Café Crème, pooling our change to see if we can afford an iced chocolate each. Rosie goes to get a table, our usual table by the window where we can watch everyone going past, and I go up to the counter.

I get my tray, I get my drinks, I go to pay – and there she is. My mother. Wearing one of those ridiculous yellow shirts they all wear, tied around her middle and showing off her belly – which is not a pretty sight – and laughing and smiling and waving at Rosie. As if this is a normal everyday thing. She didn’t even – and I can’t believe this – give me my drinks for free!

Lipsy stopped writing and threw her pen across the room. She was panting slightly, the memory, only an hour old, fresh and vividly painful. Why was her life turning so complicated? Just when she’d got herself a great boyfriend, a small group of admiring friends at school, an image, a lifestyle that fitted how she saw herself perfectly, why did it all have to start going wrong now?

At least Rob seemed to be hanging on, waiting for this ridiculous situation with her mother to sort itself out. But how long would he wait? She knew that he liked it when they were
together
, and most of her friends believed that if you weren’t
doing it
with a bloke he’d dump you pretty quick. Suddenly the age difference seemed bigger, more important. He could go out when he liked, where he liked, while she, under the clutches of an overprotective mum, was grounded like a child. A child who couldn’t
get with it
.

Lipsy wondered whether her code words for sex would fool anyone, least of all her mother.

She wandered downstairs in search of comfort food. Another bad sign, eating when depressed. One she’d inherited from her bloody mother. In the kitchen she found chocolate cake, and Alistair.

‘Hi, Lipsy,’ he said, folding up his newspaper and giving her his full attention.

‘Where’s Grandma?’ she asked.

‘I think she’s gone to an open evening at the shopping centre, some store-card offer or something,’ Alistair said, dropping his voice as though telling her a secret. ‘Don’t tell your mother,’ he added.

As if I would, Lipsy thought. That would only set off yet another row about money; her mum was always going on at her grandma about her spending. Like the relationship was reversed, and Stella was the mother of Maggie, not the other way around.

‘Sit down.’ Alistair nudged out a chair with his foot.

Lipsy sat, unselfconsciously tucking into her cake. After a few minutes she looked up at Alistair, who had returned his attention to the paper. Despite what her mum said, he really wasn’t all that bad, she thought. Quite young, no more than late twenties, younger than Rob in fact. Trendy in an effortless way. Lipsy remembered vaguely that he’d transferred to Milton Keynes with his job, something to do with computers. She supposed he was lodging with her grandma until he got around to buying somewhere of his own, but he didn’t seem in much of a hurry. Rob was in a similar situation, lodging with friends. She’d love it if he got his own place – or maybe they’d get somewhere together ...

Yeah, like her mum would ever let
that
happen.

‘Alistair, can I ask your advice about something?’ said Lipsy suddenly.

‘Sure.’ He folded up his paper again and turned his chair to face hers.

Lipsy swallowed. ‘I just wondered, erm, what you thought about age? I mean, would you go out with someone younger than you? Say, sixteen, even?’

Alistair raised his eyebrows and ran a hand through carefully tousled hair. ‘Well, now, Lipsy, there’s a question a guy doesn’t get asked every day. But I have to tell you, I’m flattered.’

Lipsy smiled and waited for him to answer her question. Then it dawned on her. Shit! He thought she was talking about her and him.

‘God, no! Sorry. I didn’t mean, I wasn’t saying…’

‘It’s OK,’ Alistair said, laughing. ‘I know about you and your older man, your gran told me. I was just teasing.’

Lipsy breathed a sigh of relief. Close call. But at least he was laughing with her and not at her. Not too embarrassing then.

‘So, you want to know how older blokes feel about younger girls, huh?’

Lipsy nodded mutely, not wanting to put her foot in it again.

‘I myself have never had a relationship with a woman that young,’ Alistair smiled mischievously again, ‘but I don’t see a problem with it. As long as she was mature enough, and we liked to do the same sort of things and had a laugh. You and your guy have a laugh, right?’

‘Oh, yeah. All the time.’ Lipsy twirled the edges of her hair nervously. ‘But the thing is, I’m not seeing much of him at the moment. I was worried he may…’

‘Go elsewhere?’ Alistair said. Lipsy nodded again. ‘Well, I can’t say for sure. But I doubt it. You’re a very attractive young lady, you know.’ He looked her up and down appraisingly. ‘He’d be mad to risk it, in my opinion.’

Pushing away the rest of the chocolate cake, Lipsy up stood and smiled. ‘Thanks, Alistair.’

He reached out and patted her arm. ‘That’s OK. No problem.’

As she made her way to the kitchen door, Alistair called, ‘Just one thing, though, Lipsy.’

She turned, eyebrow raised quizzically. ‘What?’

‘Don’t keep him waiting too long. All men have needs, if you know what I mean. And most of us are pretty keen on getting them met.’

***

Tonight is my second shift at Café Crème. I’m doing Thursdays and Fridays, half five till nine, and Sundays, eleven till five. It takes up a lot of my free time, but what else would I be doing with it? Going rollerblading around Willen Lake? I hardly think so. That’s more Paul’s style than mine. All I have on my radar for the near future is decorating and more decorating, and without this job there will be no paint, so I’ll just have to make the best of it.

So far I’ve managed to piss off one person by taking the job – and as that person is my daughter this is not a great start. I honestly thought she’d be pleased. I’m earning the money for her, for goodness sake, to buy her all that stuff she’s so obsessed with. (OK, and a little for me too.) How was I to know that this exact coffee shop was her special place to hang out with her friend Rosie? Who is, it should be said, a little too grown up for her age. She was wearing bras before she was out of nappies, that one.

I told Lipsy what I told my mother, and Joshua, and Bonnie – and everyone else who tried to give me their opinion on my latest course of action. This is my life, my problem, and it’s up to me to sort it out. And this is the way I’m choosing. So there.

Paul comes in to see me around half eight. He’s been showing a flat in the city centre, he says, but I know he’s just come in to give me moral support. In fact, he’s the only person who hasn’t been down on my decision to get a second job, even going so far as to let me finish work half an hour early on Thursdays and Fridays. And he’s given me a pay rise, bless him. Could he be any more thoughtful?

When it’s his turn to be served (he lets two women go ahead of him so he can wait for me), I say, in my best waitress voice, ‘And what can I get for you, Sir?’

‘Well, now, let’s see …’ Paul begins to read the menu on the wall behind my head. ‘I might go for the Mocha Frappuccino – what exactly would that be?’

‘Erm, it’s a chocolaty icy coffee thing.’ But I haven’t been shown how to make one yet. ‘They’re not very nice,’ I whisper. ‘Why not try our special, Sir?’ I say loudly. ‘The Cinnamon-Spiced Toffee Latte.’

Paul grins and nods, and I set about working the huge metal coffee machine and spooning spice mix into a tall glass. When it’s done it doesn’t look as much like the picture as I’d have liked, but Paul seems impressed. Until I tell him the price.

‘How much? I could buy dinner for two for that,’ he complains as he grudgingly hands over the cash.

I shush him and wave him off.

He carries his drink to a quiet corner and I wait a few seconds then announce to Gina that I’m going to do some clearing up while it’s quiet. We close in half an hour, and I’m thinking I might see if Paul fancies getting something to eat; all this hard work makes me hungry.

‘Speaking of dinner,’ I say as I waft my cloth across the table next to his, ‘are you busy later?’

‘Are you asking me out on a date, Waitress?’

I stop my wafting and turn to look at him properly. He has that look in his eyes, the kind-of-naughty one I haven’t seen for a while. I decide I like seeing it there very much, so I play along. ‘Why, yes. I think I might be,’ I say, coquettishly.

‘Well,’ Paul says, ‘if we’re going on a date I really should get to know you a bit better. Would you like to sit down?’

Looking around quickly, I see that Gina is staring at her nails, totally bored, and our boss, Tony, is nowhere to be seen. Coast clear. I perch on the edge of a chair, pulling in my tummy so it doesn’t overhang. Blast these silly tie-waist shirts; it’s not good for a woman of my age – and my physique – to have so much flesh on show.

‘So, Mister,’ I say, ‘what would you like to know?’

Leaning across the small wooden table, Paul rests his hands over mine and asks me, with a completely straight face, ‘Would you like to get married someday?’

I jump back so fast I nearly fall off my chair. Suddenly our harmless, silly flirting doesn’t seem so harmless at all. Paul is laughing but he looks a bit uncomfortable. I try to smooth over my extreme reaction with a joke of my own.

‘Be careful, Mister. I might say yes,’ I answer in a sing-song voice.

It doesn’t work. I don’t know why exactly, but the light, fun mood of moments ago has been replaced by a heavy, awkward silence. Paul is looking at me strangely, his blue eyes unreadable. Deep and unreadable, just like they were in school when I’d dream night after night that he would ask me that very question one day – but obviously not in jest. What would have happened, I wonder, if I hadn’t met John Dean when I did? If I’d waited around just a little bit longer, given our friendship a chance to become something more? Would he have noticed me then as more than just Stella From School? All these years he’s watched out for me like I’m his little sister or something, and I bet it has never occurred to him that we could have been so much more. Could still be so much more …

‘I’d better go and help finish up,’ I say, standing. I can hear Gina dismantling the coffee machines ready for cleaning – my cue to move my arse.

Paul nods. Dinner, it seems, is forgotten. I can’t describe the odd feeling inside my stomach right now. Almost like – loss. It’s as if I came close to something really important. I just have no idea what it was.

Just then I notice a man out of the corner of my eye. He is lurking outside the door of Café Crème, wearing a tatty parka (even though it’s June) and carrying a traveller’s rucksack.

My first thought: We’re closed, mate, go away.

My second thought: Oh my God. It’s my brother.

Catching my eye through the window, Billy waves energetically and then pushes open the door.

‘Sorry, we’re closed,’ Gina calls from behind the counter.

‘It’s OK, he’s with me,’ I tell her. She looks from me to Paul to Billy and back again, shakes her head and returns to her cleaning.

I intercept my brother as he claps Paul on the back and drops his backpack onto the floor.

‘Long time no see, sis,’ he says to me, all smiles, like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. I’d really like to shove a load in there and test that theory out.

‘What the bloody hell are you doing here?’

I’m fuming. Yes, this is my brother and yes, I am pleased to see him. In a way. But the last time I saw him he had two hundred quid of mine in his grubby paws – a loan for his rent, supposedly, to be paid back in less than a month.

That was eighteen months ago.

Here he is now, turning up like an odd sock you can never find a match for but can’t bear to throw away. He stands awkwardly, hands shoved deep into his pockets, shoulders hunched. Billy is taller than me but we look about the same height due to his terrible posture; not a manifestation of poor self-esteem, more a sign of laziness. He slumped suddenly at thirteen and has never bothered stretching out his spine since, and no amount of nagging from our mother, or knees in the back from our father, made the slightest bit of difference.

Little Billy Bobby-Socks was what we all called him when he was born, due to his comically over-large feet and the ridiculous bright orange socks my grandmother knitted him. He was the most beautiful baby I’d ever seen (I hadn’t seen too many), with big blue eyes and a red, petal-shaped mouth that emitted ear-splitting wails and cute gurgles in equal measure. I was seven, and had all but despaired of ever having a sibling to play with.

So the boy had quite a lot to put up with for the first few years of his life as I dressed him in dolls’ clothes and made him the guest of honour at imaginary tea parties. When I was ten and began to experiment with make-up, guess who I tried out my favourite colours on?