The Bex Factor (16 page)

Bex

‘Come on, Bex,’ says Nat, who’s all Barbied-up in her little pink top and killer heels. ‘You want Yazz to have a proper dad, don’t you?’

‘I thought you said you never wanted to see that “stupid jerk” again?’

Nat joggles Yasmin who giggles so cutely I could eat her. ‘Yeah, well, I changed my mind, didn’t I?’

‘Why can’t Mum have her?’

‘Mum’s working. There’s no way she’d take her down OneStop again – not after what happened last time.’

‘What about Dad?’

‘Matinee of
Fame the Musical
in Basingstoke.’

‘Kyle then?’

‘What kind of a mum do you think I am? Oh come on, Bex. Jez says we can be a proper family now he’s an assistant manager.’

‘Why doesn’t he want to see Yasmin, then?’

‘His mum’s going to Brighton, so we can have the flat to ourselves. Oh come on, Bex, please.’

‘Look, I can’t. I promised Emily Layton I’d go round and help turn her My Little Ponies into sheep.’

‘You’re not still going round there, are you? According to Shezza, the geek with the guitar is two-timing you with Vampire Girl.’

‘No he’s not,’ I say. ‘They’re just . . .’

‘Yeah, I know,’ says Nat, with a sympathetic smile, ‘just good friends. Look, tell you what. I’ll show you how to get him back if you help me out.’

I don’t tell her that I never had him in the first place. ‘Yeah, all right, I suppose so.’

‘Thanks, Bex,’ says Nat, handing me Yasmin and checking her make-up in the mirror. ‘I owe you one.’

‘You owe me a lot more than that – doesn’t she, Yazz?’

‘Her changing bag is in my room. Oh and she’s a bit . . . funny today – runny bottom and all that.’

‘Well, why didn’t you . . .?’

Natalie kisses Yasmin and hurries to the door. ‘I won’t be back till late. Jez says he wants to make a day of it. Laters.’

‘Yes but —’ The front door slams and we watch her through the front window as she totters down the street. ‘Come on then, Yazz. Let’s go make some sheep.’

Emily has lined her ponies up on the kitchen table. ‘We’ll start with Sparkle,’ she says, pouring some PVA glue into a Peter Rabbit bowl.

‘Why are we doing this?’ I say, checking that Yasmin’s still crashed-out in her buggy.

‘Because it’s cool,’ says Emily. ‘And everyone else at school is doing it.’

‘So we cover them in toilet paper, right?’

‘And when it’s dry, we stick on bits of cotton wool and turn them into sheep. It’s called recycling.’

Sue Layton is hardly speaking to me after what we did to her wheelchair. ‘How’s your mum?’

‘She’s in bed,’ says Emily, dipping Sparkle’s mane into the glue. ‘She’s had a headache all week.’

Yasmin starts grisling. I try to ignore her, hoping she’ll go back to sleep.

‘Bex?’ says Emily. ‘Why have you brought a baby with you?’

‘It’s my sister’s baby, Yasmin. The one I was telling you about, yeah?’

‘So where’s your sister?’ says Emily, blinding Sparkle with a dollop of glue. ‘Why isn’t she looking after her baby?’

‘Because she’s with her boyfriend, Jez.’

Emily thinks for a minute. ‘Have you got a boyfriend, Bex?’

I think for a minute. ‘Not really – no.’

‘Mum says you fancy Matthew.’

‘What?’ I say, trying to sound surprised. ‘Come off it. I mean would
you
fancy a guy like Matthew?’

‘He’s my brother. What do you reckon?’

Yasmin’s grizzling turns into a full-on screaming fit.

‘Think I’d better pick her up,’ I say, hurrying to the buggy and releasing Yasmin from the straps. ‘Come on, Yazz; what’s the matter with you?’

‘Real babies are rubbish, aren’t they?’ says Emily, putting Sparkle on top of the fridge to dry. ‘I’ve had, like, six, but I’m never going to have a real
one.’

The screaming gets worse. I try everything I know: aeroplanes, blowing raspberries on her tummy, singing the theme tune from
Arthur
, even putting one of her disposable nappies on my head
and doing a little dance, but nothing seems to work. The more Yazz cries, the more I feel like crying myself. Her little face gets redder and redder and I start wondering if I should call the doctor
or something.

‘What on earth is going on in here?’ says Mrs Layton, standing in the doorway with a face like Kyle’s favourite cage-fighter.

‘We’re turning my ponies into sheep, Mum,’ says Emily.

‘Not that. I’m talking about the wretched baby. I was nearly asleep.’

Yasmin suddenly stops crying and then seems to hold her breath for a moment before cranking up the volume.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, trying to look like I know what I’m doing. ‘She’s my sister’s. I said I’d look after her for the day.’

‘And your parents are all right with this, are they?’

‘Yeah – ’course.’

‘Talk about irresponsible,’ says Mrs Layton, glaring at Yasmin. ‘Fancy leaving a fourteen-year-old child in charge of a six-month-old baby.’

‘They let me look after you, didn’t they?’ I say. ‘Anyway, she’s nearly seven months now.’

‘Babies are horrible, aren’t they, Mum?’ says Emily.

Mrs Layton’s face goes all gooey. ‘No, no, babies are . . . well, they’re lovely –
if
you look after them properly.’

‘I don’t know what’s wrong with her,’ I say. ‘Natalie told me her bottom was a bit runny. And look at her face – it’s all red.’

‘Here, give her to me,’ says Mrs Layton. ‘Just let me sit down. Seven months, you say?’

‘Yeah, ’bout that.’

Yasmin looks surprised when I hand her over, but she soon starts wailing again.

‘All right, little one,’ says Mrs Layton, holding her dead carefully, like the best china. ‘Let’s have a look at you.’ She examines Yazz, rocking her gently and
making little clucking noises. ‘Yes, I thought so.’

‘What’s the matter with her, Sue? It’s not serious, is it?’

‘The poor little mite’s teething,’ she says, sniffing Yasmin’s hair. ‘You need to get her some Calpol straightaway.’

‘What about my sheep?’ says Emily, preparing Buttercup for her makeover.

‘They’ll have to wait,’ says her mum. ‘Bex needs to pop into town for some Calpol. I’ll look after Yasmin if you like.’

‘I can’t,’ I say. ‘They won’t sell it to me. I’m only a fourteen-year-old child, remember? You’ll have to come too.’

‘No chance,’ says Mrs Layton, rocking Yasmin more desperately. ‘You know how I feel about the Prat-Mobile.’

Yasmin screws up her face and squeals even louder.

‘All right, darling, all right. You win, OK,’ says Mrs Layton, bending down and kissing Yazz on the forehead. ‘Well, come on, Bex. What are you waiting for?’

‘Eh?’

‘Go and fetch that ridiculous wheelchair.’

Maybe it’s just the sunny weather, but everyone seems be smiling at us on the way to town; Mrs Layton in her chariot cuddling Yasmin (who alternates between gurgling at
passers-by and screaming), me pushing them, and Emily skipping along behind us, with a weird sheep-like pony thing in Yasmin’s buggy.

A couple of lads come up to us outside the Post Office and I get this horrible feeling they’re going to lair us off.

‘All right, Miss?’ says the one in the football shirt. ‘Like your wheelchair, Miss.’

Mrs Layton looks well pleased. ‘Thanks, Danny. Good to see you.’

And practically the same thing happens outside Poundland.

‘Ex-students of mine,’ explains Mrs Layton. ‘I was head of economics at the sixth form college.’

Mrs Layton buys the Calpol from the pharmacy counter and we take Yasmin to the baby changing room at the front of the store and sit her up on the changing mat. Yasmin takes one look at the
medicine bottle and goes mental.

‘How am I supposed to give it to her?’ I say. ‘She won’t even open her mouth.’

‘Here, let me try,’ says Mrs Layton, heaving herself up from her wheelchair and leaning on the changing table. ‘There should be a little syringe in the box. It’s all
right, darling, there are no nasty needles.’

I don’t know how she does it, but Mrs Layton somehow manages to get the syringe into the corner of Yazz’s mouth and squirt in some sticky orangey stuff. As soon as Yazz tastes it she
gets this dopey grin on her face, a bit like Dad when he listens to the original cast recording of
South Pacific
.

Sue Layton doesn’t look quite so pleased with herself. ‘God, no.’

‘What’s the matter, Mum?’ says Emily.

‘I need a pee.’

‘Come on,’ says Emily. ‘You’d better put Yasmin in her buggy. Mum needs the loo, like yesterday.’

‘Too late,’ groans Mrs Layton. ‘I
knew
I shouldn’t have come out.’

A dark stain is forming on the front of her Marks & Spencer jeans. She flops back into her wheelchair and I’m like,
Oh my God. What do I do now?

Matthew

Nikki has called us all to Hospitality after the final run-through of ‘Hard Knock Life’.

The twins are chasing UP4IT round the refreshment table making chicken noises, Elizabeth McQueen is sampling the prawn cocktail sandwiches, Phil Carvery and his wife Tina are holding hands in
the corner, and I’m trying to creep across to Twilight to tell her how brilliant her song from
Blood Brothers
is, when my phone rings.

‘Look, I’m busy, OK?’ I say, hiding behind the monitor where you can watch the live feed of the show. ‘I’ll talk to you later.’

‘Shut up and listen. This is important, yeah?’ says Bex.

‘Trevor, Ashley, could you keep it down, I’m on the phone here.’ The twins give me a joint thumbs-up and resume the chase. ‘What’s up, Bex? I’m supposed to be
rehearsing.’

‘It’s your mum,’ she says. ‘She’s . . . well, she’s had an accident.’

‘What kind of an accident?’

‘Well, you know. She’s . . .’ Bex lowers her voice to a whisper. ‘. . . weed herself.’

‘Where are you?’ I say, remembering that time it happened in Burger King.

‘Outside Boots. What do I do, Matthew?’

‘Don’t panic,’ I say, noticing that Nikki Hardbody is staring hard in my direction. ‘There’s a disabled toilet on the second floor – use the lift – and
she’s got some spare underwear in the leather holdall on the back of her chair.’

‘Yeah, but what do I —?’

‘See ya,’ I say, snapping off my phone and giving Nikki Hardbody a sickly smile when she wanders over to investigate.

‘Who was that?’ she says hopefully. ‘Not someone interesting, I hope.’

‘Not really – just some kid from school wishing me luck for tonight.’

The twins start squawking again.

‘You’re going to need it,’ says Nikki, rather coldly. ‘You know how much I want you to be here, Matt,’ she says, warming a little, ‘but if you can’t
come up with something better than a bad PE lesson, it could be a case of send home the clown.’

As soon as Nikki goes off to buttonhole Brenda and Justin, Twilight sidles up and slips her hand through my arm. ‘Who was that on the phone?’

‘My mum’s had an accident.’

Twilight takes out her fangs. ‘It wasn’t a car accident, was it? Phil Carvery’s been making a five course banquet out of his wife’s little smash up.’

‘No,’ I whisper, wanting to be honest with her. ‘Mum’s . . . wet herself . . . in the shopping centre.’

‘Well, that was careless,’ says Twilight.