Bridesmaid Blitz (12 page)
“Thanks for reminding me, Clover.” Mum touches the corner of her left eye. (She’s a bit sensitive about her wrinkles.)
“And did you see her rocket boobs?” Clover grins. “Can’t be natural.”
“Clover!” Mum says.
“What? I’m just saying.”
I grin. “Thanks a lot, Clover. I won’t be able to stop staring at her chest now. Checking her out for falsies.”
Even Mum has to laugh.
Clover switches on her laptop then swivels around in her black leather chair. We’re sitting in her “office,” a customized shed in the back garden. Truth be told, I’m lolling on her sofa rather than sitting. Clover treated me and Mum to lunch at Eddie Rocket’s in Blackrock on the way home from the hospital, and I’m still so full from my mega burger, onion rings, and curly fries I can hardly sit upright!
“So what’s it to be, Beanie?” she asks, pulling some papers out of a plastic folder and flicking through them. “Boyfriend blues, embarrassing mums, or moving school?” She hands the problems over and I scan them all. One catches my attention immediately:
Dear Amy and Clover,
Please save me! My mother’s a nightmare. Last night I caught her dancing in the kitchen to the Killers. She was holding her nose and twisting her body up and down like she was pole dancing . . .
“Embarrassing mums,” I say firmly, looking up from the letter. “It’ll be a cakewalk.”
Clover grins. “No kidding, with Sylvie as your parental.” She stands up. “Take the hot seat and type away.”
“On my own?”
“Sure. You’re ready, Beanie. And, as you say, this one will be easy peasy. I’m going to start sorting out clothes for Paris.”
I bite my lip.
Paris
.
“What’s wrong? Spit it out, Beanie.” She knows me too well.
“What if something happens to Gracie while we’re away? Something bad.”
“You heard Art. She’s doing really well. Nothing’s going to happen.”
“You don’t know that for sure, and we’ll be so far away. . . .”
“Look, it’s all booked and we’ll only be gone three days. When are you seeing Gracie again?”
I shrug. “Not sure. Dad didn’t say.”
“Ring him. Ask if you can visit before we leave on Friday. Tell him about the trip, but make him swear not to breathe a word to Sylvie. It’s normal to worry, babes. Shows you care. But Gracie is in good hands at Parnell Street. And you can ring your dad every day to check up on her. She’s only tiny; she won’t even notice you’re gone, honest.”
I nod. I feel a bit better about it now. “Thanks, Clover.”
“Anytime, Bean Machine. Now, back to Paris. How many suitcases are you bringing?”
I giggle. “Suitcases? Clover, we’ll only be there for a few days.”
She pretends to look shocked. “But it’s Paris, Beanie: Fashion Central. We have to look our best. Now, where did I put that fake Chanel bag?” She walks off, mumbling to herself about berets and striped T-shirts.
“You’re going to look like an onion seller!” I shout after her, but she’s lost in a fashion haze.
I sit down in her chair, which is still warm from her bum and so feels a bit weird. It reminds me of the heated seats in Dad’s Mercedes — if he turns them up too high, I always feel like I need the loo. It’s a most peculiar sensation.
Dad
. His face swims in front of my eyes.
I have this other worry: maybe now that he has Gracie, he won’t have time for me anymore. Maybe we’ll end up drifting apart, like Sophie Piggott and her dad — she only gets to see him a few times a year since he had kids with his new wife. No wonder she’s so bitter and twisted.
I tell myself I’m being silly. I saw Dad earlier and everything was perfectly normal. Yes, he was a bit preoccupied and we didn’t get to talk much, but with Gracie being sick and everything, that’s understandable. I need to stop being such a worry bug. Taking a deep breath, I decide to snap out of it. I have to concentrate on answering the agony aunt letter, so I knuckle down to work.
Dear Amy and Clover,
Please save me! My mother’s a nightmare. Last night I caught her dancing in the kitchen to the Killers. She was holding her nose and twisting her body up and down like she was pole dancing or something. So embarrassing! (And why was she holding her nose? Supa strange!)
That’s not all. I went shopping with her last week in Dundrum — nevs again. She kept dragging me into shops, holding up these really gross clothes, and saying, “This would really suit you, Romie.”
As if!
Everyone was laughing at me. And she was doing that bum-wiggling thing again in Penneys — to a Beyoncé song. Morto cubed. But at least she didn’t hold her nose, I guess.
I don’t mind hanging out with her sometimes — she’s not the worst — but I can’t go to Dundrum with her again. Eva! It’ll ruin my rep. How can I tell her this without being mean?
’Rents! They mean well, but they’re, like, so sad.
Ta!
Romie, 14, Malahide XXX
Dear Romie,
Join the club! My mum’s a bum wiggler too. And that nose-holding thing — it’s a weirdo dance the olds do: imitating going underwater or something. Nothing to worry about. At least she’s never moonwalked across Zara. Or zombie danced to “Thriller” at your eleventh birthday party, like my female parental. Cringe-a-rama!
She probably has no idea that she was killing your rep in Dundrum. But as she’s also holding the fashion purse strings, here’s what I’d suggest:
1.
Go to Dundrum dead early to avoid being spotted.
2.
Teach her some “normal” dance moves — if you can. Otherwise, sign her up for a dance class.
3.
Suggest other things to do together — movie, pizza, a show — it might be less stressful.
And if all else fails — wear dark glasses!
Best of luck with it, Romie. We hear your pain.
Your fellow sufferers,
Amy and Clover XXX
I’m just saving the letter and wondering if Clover will notice the order of the names when she bounces in the door, like a human pogo stick. “Hey, Beanie. How did you get on?”
“OK, I think.”
She sits on the side of the desk and reads the screen. “Sweet reply. Short and to the point. Attagirl. I’ll make a journo of you yet.” She stops for a minute and looks at me. “You still seem a bit down in the dumps. Anything else you want to talk about, babes?”
I shake my head and focus on the bright screen of Clover’s laptop. “Not at the moment.”
“Coola boola. Whenever, Beanie.”
I’m glad she doesn’t press me.
“But remember, I’m here for you, doll face,” she adds. “Underground, over ground, wombling free. Don’t ever forget that.”
“Wombling free?” I scrunch up my nose. “What are you on about?”
She laughs. “
The Wombles
— Sylvie’s fave show for years.” She reaches over and clicks into YouTube, and we watch a bunch of tubby gray bear things bumble around the screen, singing and picking up litter.
I giggle. “They’re ridiculous, Clover!”
She grins. “Wait till you see
Bagpuss
. And
The Clangers
. And
Noggin the Nog
. Oh, and
Crystal Tipps and Alistair
.”
I shake my head. “Weird seventies brainwashing. No wonder Mum’s so strange.”
On Sunday afternoon, I poke my head into the living room. Mum’s struggling to get Alex into a long-sleeved T-shirt: as soon as she gets one arm in, he pulls it straight back out again. “Mum, I’m just popping over to Mills’s to say bye. She’s off to Paris in the morning. Won’t be long.”
I’m in the middle of closing the door behind me when Mum says, “Not so fast, Amy. Come here for a second.”
“Need a hand with the toddler octopus?” I grin.
“Please. He squeezed a whole carton of apple juice over himself a few minutes ago. I told Dave not to give it to him, but oh, no, he knew better.”
I hold Alex’s chubby torso. As soon as Mum manages to get one arm covered, I grab his hand to stop him reefing it out again. “Busted,” I tell him as he tries to shake away from my pincher grip.
Once he’s dressed, Mum turns on his battery-powered Brio train and he’s instantly distracted. “Shoe-shoe,” he says, following it along the wooden tracks. He hasn’t quite gotten the whole “ch” thing yet.
Mum flops down on the sofa. Her cheeks are flushed. Dressing Alex is a major production: Mum calls it the squiggle-and-squirm waist twist. She claims it’s one of the stay-at-homers’ many daily gym workouts, along with the hanging-up-the-washing arm stretch and the lifting-toys-off-the-floor leg squat.
“You saw Mills last night,” she points out. “I thought you had an essay to do for tomorrow.”
“It’s nearly finished.” I cross my fingers behind my back. (I haven’t exactly started yet, but it’s only three copybook pages on the Roman army. I’ll fly through it, especially if I use extremely large writing.) “And I won’t see her for a whole week,” I moan. “Pretty please?” I kneel on the ground, press my hands together, and plead.
She laughs. “Oh, go on — if you must. You have had quite a time of it recently, what with Gracie and everything. I guess you deserve it.” She stops for a second. “You haven’t been given much credit for what you did for Shelly, have you? I dread to think what would have happened if you hadn’t been there. I guess Art’s too wrapped up in his own world to think about anything else. What’s new? But you know
I’m
really proud of you, Amy, don’t you?” She goes to hug me but I back away.
“I’m not four, Mum. Less with the hugs, OK?”
She looks a little upset, so I say, “Oh, go on, then. Just a swiftie.”
And the next thing I know I’m squashed up against her chest. Yikes! I draw away as quickly as possible. “See you later, Mum.”
“Back by six for family dinner. Understand?”
“Total comprende,”
I say, running out the door before she changes her mind.
As I walk toward Mills’s house, I think about what Mum just said. She’s right: Dad’s never thanked me or Clover for getting Shelly to Parnell Street. Neither has Shelly herself, for that matter. I stop outside Mills’s house, lost in thought.
Mills swings open her front door. “Hi, Ames. What are you doing standing there like a lemon? Come in.”
Trying to get Shelly and Dad’s ingratitude out of my head, I follow her inside and sniff. Yum! Warm, sweet . . . chocolate! “What’s that smell?” I ask, hoping I already know the answer.
Mills’s eyes twinkle dangerously. “Mum’s chocolate brownies. Want one?”
“Is Johnny Depp a god?” I close my eyes and put my hands out in front of me like a zombie. “They’re calling me. I’m coming, my choco friends. Hang in there.”
Mills giggles. “If you don’t open your eyes, you’ll bump into something.”
Sue looks over as we walk into the kitchen. “Hi, girls. Wonder what you two are after!” She gives a tinkling laugh. She’s wearing a red spotty apron, and in her oven-mitted hands, she’s holding a fresh tray of brownies, their crispy tops still sizzling from the Aga. She puts the tray down on the stove and begins to cut them into wedges the size of iPods. Once she has finished, she levers the slices carefully onto a plate and plonks it in the middle of the kitchen table. The aroma makes my mouth water and my taste buds tingle.