Girls, Guilty but Somehow Glorious (8 page)

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13

SUNDAY 3.14 p.m.

The dog that came back from the dead

Chloe suddenly walked through the room and went upstairs. She smiled and said, ‘Excuse me,’ as she passed us. I heard her go into the bathroom. She turned the taps on – presumably to blot out the sound of her making the call. I assumed she was going to ring me right now. I jolly well hoped so. I had already been interviewing Scott for what felt like two thousand years.

Suddenly, a baby laughed loudly in my handbag. Scott kind of jumped. I admit it is a bizarre ringtone. I grabbed my phone.

‘Hi!’ I said. ‘I can’t talk now, I’m afraid – I’m in a meeting.’

‘Oh, I’m really sorry,’ said a mysterious masculine voice. ‘This is Oliver. I’ll ring back later.’ Oliver!!! And he hung up on me. These few words kick-started a major crisis in all my internal organs. Stomachs I never knew I had started break-dancing. My kidneys sizzled as if on a barbecue. My tummy started to beat like an African drum. My face turned red, white and blue – I could feel it.

Scott sat opposite, staring at me. At this most inconvenient moment he had found the confidence to look me in the eye. I had lost a chance to talk to Oliver because I was trapped with this moron. And it was all my fault. What was I doing here? What on earth did I imagine I was playing at?

‘So . . .’ said Scott. ‘What does the uh, job, like, involve, exactly?’

The baby laughed again from my handbag. For a crazy moment I thought it might be Oliver again. I grabbed the phone.

‘Hello?’ I said, in a seductive voice.

‘Listen.’ It was Chloe. ‘Is it too soon to tell you your dog’s been run over?’

‘No!’ I said, with a tragic gasp. I leapt from my sofa and walked over to the window. I turned my back on Scott, to hide my face. ‘How did it happen? When? Where?’

‘You told me not to say anything funny, so blah blah blah blah, I’m afraid,’ said Chloe. In my near-hysterical state I almost found this too hilarious to bear. But I knew I had to concentrate like mad and make it feel real. It was our only chance of getting rid of Scott
immediately
– which incidentally was already way, way too late for comfort.

‘No!’ I cried operatically. ‘No! Oh, how awful! How is he?’

‘Dead!’ said Chloe. ‘No, wait – sorry, I got that wrong. The dog’s fine, but the bus is a write-off. Not bad for a chihuahua.’

A burst of laughter snorted out of me, but I disguised it as a sob of anguish.

‘In intensive care?’ I spluttered. ‘Can I come and see him?’

‘Yeah,’ said Chloe. ‘And don’t forget the grapes.’

‘I’ll come right away!’ I said, and rang off. I turned to Scott, who was looking worried.

‘My dog’s been run over,’ I said, trying to keep the urge to laugh
firmly
shut in. I grabbed a tissue, covered my face for a moment, and let out a sob of laughter with my face well hidden. Scott stumbled to his feet. He looked deeply upset. We stood around helplessly in the face of my awful loss.

‘God! I’m sorry,’ he said.

‘I’m
so
sorry,’ I kind of sobbed. ‘He’s in intensive care, down at the vet’s. I’ll have to go there now.’

‘Yeah,’ said Scott, looking with obvious longing towards the door. ‘God! I hope he makes it.’

Then a really weird thing happened. The front door flew open, and Chloe’s huge dog, Geraint, came hurtling in. He headed straight for Scott and started sniffing his trousers with horrid familiarity.

‘Geraint!’ Chloe’s mum, Fran, now entered the room, looking, as usual, like some kind of low-budget street entertainer. Several Indian bags hung from her shoulders – some adorned with little mirrors. She was wearing her hair up in a thick grey pineapple ponytail, and earrings shaped like gigantic red and white toadstools dangled from her ears. ‘Geraint! Stop it! Go in your basket!’

Scott was stroking Geraint’s head in an attempt to distract him from his jeans.

‘It isn’t this dog that’s been run over,’ I explained. ‘This is Chloe’s dog. It’s my dog.’

‘Your dog’s been run over, Zoe?’ cried Fran in horror. ‘I didn’t even know you had a dog!’

‘We’ve only just got him,’ I explained. ‘He’s only a puppy.’ Tears (God help me) appeared in Fran’s eyes.

‘Oh my God, how tragic!’ she lamented. At this point Chloe came charging downstairs. ‘Zoe’s dog’s been run over!’ said Fran.

‘I know!’ said Chloe, dramatically. Of course she didn’t know! She’d been upstairs when I’d got the call, hadn’t she? Did she never
think
?

The important thing now was to get Scott out of the house.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I said to Scott. ‘I’m going to have to go and see him. He’s in intensive care,’ I told Chloe’s mum. ‘Down at the vet’s.’

‘Oh, which vet? I’ll drive you there if you like,’ said Fran, with disastrous sympathy. My mind went blank. I didn’t have a clue where any vets were. That’s how it is when you aren’t allowed any pets. The wonderful world of vets – and vet students – is closed to you.

‘That one down by the station!’ I made flapping gestures. ‘Down that side road. The one with the thingummyjig.’ Fran looked puzzled. I turned to Scott. He was longing to go: I was longing for him to go, and yet still, somehow, we hadn’t managed to get him even anywhere near the sitting-room door.

‘I’m so sorry, Scott!’ I said, with a brave smile. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

‘Yeah, thanks.’ Scott edged sideways towards the door. ‘Sorry about . . . it. Bye.’ He ducked out of the sitting room and disappeared into the hall. Chloe followed him and we heard them saying goodbye, and the front door shutting behind him.

‘Phew!’ I said, and slumped back down on to the sofa.

‘You must be very shocked, Zoe, love,’ said Chloe’s mum. ‘Would you like a few drops of my Rescue Remedy?’

‘No, thanks,’ I said faintly. I now had to explain to Fran that it had all been a lie. Chloe entered the room, and as she did so, a strange sound rang out. It was Chloe’s latest ringtone – a flamenco chicken.

‘Hello?’ she said, and then she went red. Instantly I knew it had to be Beast.

‘When shall we go to the vet’s?’ Fran asked me. ‘Right away?’

Chloe sped furtively from the room. I could hear her muttering secretly into her mobe as she ran upstairs. Her bedroom door slammed shut. ‘Or would you like a cup of tea first?’ Fran went on. She was being so nice, so supportive, and yet somehow, I wanted to kill her – in the comfort of her own home, too.

‘Fran,’ I said heavily, ‘I have a huge confession to make. We invented all that about my dog being run over to get rid of that nerdy boy.’

Fran’s face creased into a huge smile. ‘Ha ha!’ she laughed, and clapped her hands. ‘Brilliant! No dead dog! No dog fighting for life! Re-sult!’ And she waltzed off to the kitchen, chuckling to herself. Though she sometimes uses inappropriately youthful slang, Chloe’s mum does have a nice festive kind of character. My mum would have interrogated me for hours, and left me feeling I had committed a dreadful crime.

I was now free to run upstairs and eavesdrop on Chloe’s phone call. But as I arrived I heard her saying goodbye. I knocked on the door. She flung it open. Her face was alight with excitement.

‘Zoe!’ she whispered, pulling me inside. ‘Beast’s invited us to the Next Big Thing – tonight! It doesn’t start till eight! We’ve got plenty of time to get ready – isn’t it amazing?’

‘Hang on,’ I said. ‘We’re babysitting tonight, remember?’

‘He’s absolutely adorable.’ Chloe wasn’t even listening. She was staring in a dreamy kind of way at the carpet. ‘He’s not at all like people say. He said I was beautiful.’

I felt a pang of rage. I didn’t want Chloe waltzing off to events with boys while I stayed behind, babysitting. I was starting to change into a nerd.

In fact, it was happening already. I looked at my feet. They had already become flat and smelly. Soon the nerdhood would spread to the rest of me. I would have to marry Scott and have nerdy babies with strange fishy eyes.

‘But the Next Big Thing is only for sixth formers,’ I objected.

‘He says he can smuggle me in. And you must come too, with Donut.’ Suddenly the red mist descended on me.

‘Chloe, no!’ I exploded. ‘I don’t want to go to the freakin’ sixth-form party with that Neanderthal! We’re supposed to be getting ourselves organised for the Earthquake Ball!’

‘But that’s not for another week!’ shouted Chloe. ‘The Next Big Thing’s tonight! Come on, Zoe, don’t front! We’re playing Major League now!’

‘
Front? Major League?
’ I repeated. ‘What language are you speaking, pray? Some kind of Beastly slang, presumably? Listen, Chloe, we have to babysit tonight. I can’t get out of it, OK?’

‘No, no!’ said Chloe. Her lower lip started to stick out and tremble. ‘Stuff babysitting! I’m going to the Next Big Thing! I never promised to go babysitting with you. The Normans are your babysitting people, not mine. I’m sorry, Zoe, but if you don’t want to go to the Next Big Thing with me, I’ll have to go without you.’

Her green eyes kind of flashed. It’s not often Chloe challenges me like that. I knew she would never change her mind, so I just flashed my eyes right back and picked up my jacket.

‘I’ll go, then,’ I said. I was seething with fury at the way she’d let me down, but I didn’t make a melodramatic exit, slamming her door or anything. I just kind of stalked grandly out of the house.

I was dreading my babysitting torment that evening with the loathsome Norman twins. At times in the past, Chloe had really helped me out, and even though she hadn’t actually promised to come and give me some support tonight, she’d kind of gone along with the idea.

But then Beast had rung and summoned her, and she was off. Where was her loyalty to me, her oldest friend, in my hour of need? Gone. I was going to have to face my ordeal alone, while she partied with party animals.

And to top it all, Oliver had rung, and I had somehow managed to hang up on him! Could life possibly get any worse?

That evening I approached the dreaded Norman house. The screaming inside was clearly audible from miles away. The front door was open, as if Mr and Mrs Norman couldn’t wait to escape. I hesitated on the doorstep.

‘Hello!?’ I cried softly, but of course my weedy little call was obliterated by the rumpus within.

However, a moment later Mrs Norman appeared, large and complacent in crumpled linen. Behind her the twins were running round, stark naked and brandishing bananas. Seeing me, they raced to the door.

‘Sorry, Zoe,’ she said. ‘The doorbell’s broken.’ As if she thought she had to apologise for
that
random detail
.

‘I’ve got a big wee-wee!’ yelled Ben, flashing his banana. Or possibly it was Jack.

‘I’ve got a bigger wee-wee and I’m going to pee all over Zoeeeee!’ screamed Jack, or possibly Ben, pointing his banana menacingly at me. I would remember this later, and marvel at his psychic powers.

Mrs Norman smiled at me as if to say, ‘
Aren’t my twins just the most adorable and witty little fellows on the entire earth?
’

My shoulders heavy with the feeling of imminent doom, I stepped inside.

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14

SUNDAY 7.32 p.m.

The worst evening of my life so far

‘We might be a bit late back,’ said Mrs N above the sound of the twins, who had tired of pretending to pee on me and were now demolishing the kitchen. ‘I’ve made up the bed in the spare room in case you want to stay.’

‘Oh, thanks,’ I said swiftly, ‘but I ought to go home afterwards. It’s only a couple of hundred metres and I am nocturnal.’ Last time I stayed, the twins had woken me up at 5 a.m. by thrashing my head with a rubber snake. ‘Don’t worry,’ I went on, trying to look capable and serene as plastic beakers whizzed past my head – like a reporter in a war zone – ‘I’ve got loads of homework and when that’s done I’ll get stuck into a DVD.’

After a bit of messing about, during which time the twins were persuaded into their pyjamas, the adult Normans left. Whenever they wave goodbye I have the horrible illusion that they’re never going to come back, ever, and I’m going to have to look after Ben and Jack for the rest of my life. I turned on the terrible twins and tried to look extremely frightening.

‘Right!’ I squeaked, unfortunately missing the ringing tones of vocal authority I was striving for. ‘If you’re not upstairs and in bed by the time I’ve counted ten, there will be No Story!’

The twins ran upstairs, yelling like banshees. But this wasn’t progress. They didn’t go to their room. They raced to the bathroom. A big sponge was floating in the washbasin. Twin A grabbed it and hurled it at Twin B. His pyjamas were saturated. He screamed. He grabbed a plastic mug and hurled more water over Twin B, who was laughing evilly.

‘Stop it!’ I roared. I strode forward and pulled the plug out of the washbasin. The twins were fighting behind me now. Which was worse: having them fighting each other or turning their Satanic energies on me? ‘Right!’ I shouted. ‘We’re going to have to get you some clean pyjamas. Take your clothes off!’

‘Take
your
clothes off!’ yelled Twin B.

‘Yeah!’ shrieked Twin A. ‘Show us yer bum!’

They tugged at the belt of my jeans. Thank God I wasn’t wearing a skirt. The first time I ever babysat for them, I’d been wearing a skirt, a long flowing one, and they had somehow ended up inside it, informing me that they were on a camping trip. My gran says children should know their place, but I’m sure it shouldn’t be actually
inside your clothing
.

‘Next time you go to the loo, we want to watch!’ shouted Twin B.

‘I would rather eat a live rhino,’ I informed him crisply.

‘I’m a rhino!’ screeched Twin A, charging me and head-butting me in the tummy, quite painfully.

‘Stop it!’ I roared. ‘And get those wet pyjamas off!’ They both pulled off their PJs and started running around naked again. ‘Stand still!’ I shouted. ‘Or I’ll phone the police!’ They ignored me. We were back to square one.

I went downstairs. OK, I was abandoning my responsibilities, but frankly I’d already had more than I could stand. I went into the sitting room and picked up my handbag. I was so tempted to ring Mum and ask her to come over. She’d offered. But I wanted to hack it on my own. If only Chloe hadn’t let me down by going off to the Next Big Thing, the treacherous bitch.

There was the thunderous noise of the twins coming – or possibly falling – downstairs, and they rushed in.

‘Are you going to phone the police?’ they asked breathlessly in unison.

‘Yes,’ I snapped, hastily improvising. I got out my phone, dialled a random number and waited for ‘a reply’. It wasn’t even ringing, of course. The twins watched, open-mouthed. For a moment there was perfect silence and peace.

‘Is that the police station?’ I said suddenly. ‘Yes, uuuuh, my name’s Zoe Morris and I’m babysitting at 32 Prince’s Gardens. I’ve got two boys here, Jack and Ben Norman, and they’re completely out of control. Can you send an officer round, please?’ Then I waited, and nodded, and said, ‘
Uh-huh
,’ and went through a big charade as if I was getting put through to where the officers are.

‘You’ll be round in ten minutes?’ I said. ‘That’s brilliant! And are you going to actually arrest them? . . . Oh, really.’ I covered up the mouthpiece and looked soberly at the twins. ‘The policeman says he’ll be able to take you to prison straightaway.’

‘It’s a trick!’ squealed Twin B. For a moment I had had them worried, but suddenly, somehow, the spell was broken.

‘What’s in your handbag?’ Twin A yelled, and dived into my most sacred and private receptacle outside my actual body.

‘Get out of my bag, you beast!’ I snatched the bag out of his horrid little paws, and everything flew across the room: coins, hankies, cosmetics, tampons, my broken pedometer, my tweezers, the lot. The twins crowed in delight.

‘If you’re not upstairs and in your bedroom in ten seconds,’ I screeched, ‘you won’t get
The House at Pooh Corner!
’ This was their favourite book.

‘Poo!’ yelled Twin B delightedly.

‘Poo!’ screamed the other. ‘Pee! Bum!’ They ran round and round me, yelling out the rudest words they could think of. And somewhere, privately, in the deep recesses of my brain, I flung my rudest words right back. I’m never going to have children. They’re just completely pointless.

Eventually they went to sleep. In their own beds, though not wearing pyjamas. I don’t know how it happened. They’d tired themselves out, I suppose. They’d certainly completely and utterly exhausted
me
. I lay on the sofa and just enjoyed the total silence for five minutes. Then I started to ransack the Normans’ DVD collection.

I found the original 1939 version of
Wuthering Heights
and decided to give it a whirl. It was in black and white and really spooky. I dimmed the lights and noticed that the wind was picking up outside – just right for a romantic romp with the ghosts on the moors.

Quite early in the film, there’s a frantic tapping on the window and the ghost of Cathy cries, ‘Let me in! Let me in!’ Mr Lockwood opens the window and her icy hand grabs his wrist. She won’t let go, and in desperation he rubs her hand against the broken glass, trying to shake off those madly clutching fingers. I watched in terror.

Then, moments later, there was a tapping at my window! Right
here
in the real world! And the wind was howling now, literally
wuthering
around the house. My blood ran cold. I hid under a throw. The tapping at the window increased.

‘Let me in! Let me in!’ Oh God, this was a bad dream. I was being haunted. The film had come to life. Or maybe I had gone into the film. ‘Let me in! Let me in!’ the high voice wailed above the storm. There was a clap of thunder. My heart was pounding so hard, my ribs were on the point of exploding.

‘Let me in! Zoe! Let me in!’ Wait. The voice knew my
name
?
I tiptoed to the window. My legs felt weak and shaky. Gingerly I opened the curtains a tiny crack, and looked out. There, soaking wet and lit up by the eerie light of the distant streetlamps, stood Chloe.

‘Open the freakin’ door!’ she yelled. ‘Let me in! The goddam doorbell’s broken!’

I raced to the front door and opened it. Chloe kind of fell in, panting, dripping, and, I’m sorry to say, sobbing.

‘It’s a nightmare!’ she gasped, gripping my arm with icy, ghostly fingers. ‘My life is technically over!’