time he’d been having a spat with the Inland Revenue and had rung the local office to say he was from British Telecom and they were testing the lines by sending a blast of hot steam down the wires. She could still hear his voice.
“And I would strongly advise your staff to wrap their phones in towels to avoid the possibility of being badly scalded. There’s a BT van outside full of towels.” He insisted that for legal reasons he needed to stay on the line and listen while they made the announcement. Which they duly did.
She should have realized that the whole story, the marriage, the champagne, the “don’t tell your grandmother,” was nothing more than a huge windup. And she’d fallen for it.
Marrying Bernadette O’Brien, yeah, right.
“Becks, you there?”
“Yeah, I’m here,” she said, laughing. “Very funny, Dad. You know you really had me going for a while.”
“I did. How? I don’t get it, what’s so funny about me marrying Bernadette?”
“Oh, come on, you know. She was . . .”
She broke off. It suddenly occurred to her that Stan seemed genuinely confused. In a horror-struck instant she realized that this was no windup.
“Dad, you’re serious, aren’t you?”
“Of course I am,” he said with an uneasy, slightly confused laugh.
She swallowed hard and raked her fingers through her hair.
“So, come on,” he repeated good-naturedly, “what’s so funny about me marrying Bernadette?”
There was, of course, nothing even remotely funny about him marrying Bernadette. On the contrary. It was one of the most hideous things she could imagine. But she didn’t dare tell him that. How could she? He was happier than he had been in years. She couldn’t hurt him by telling him the truth. Instead she had to backtrack. Fast.
“Sorry, Dad, I think we’ve been at cross-purposes. I was confusing Bernadette with another girl called O’Brien. This other one had buck teeth and terrible BO. I couldn’t believe you’d fallen for somebody like that.”
He laughed, obviously relieved. “So, you remember Bernadette now?”
“Of course I do,” Rebecca said, desperately trying to force some enthusiasm into her voice. “Who could forget Bernadette?”
“Brilliant. I’m sure the pair of you will have loads to catch up on.”
“Can’t wait.”
She put the glass to her lips and downed the remainder of her “Slim-Slow” in one gulp.
4
R
ebecca found the Crouch End High official school photograph (summer 1986—she was sixteen) rolled up on the top shelf of her wardrobe, along with a whole load of other memorabilia she didn’t have the heart to chuck out. This included copies of three pop numbers she’d written during her adolescent songwriting phase and sent to Wet Wet Wet—she was still waiting for a reply—and her Blue Peter badge from 1979 (for her poster promoting road safety).
She spotted Bernadette immediately with her doe eyes, perfect figure and mass of bleached Kylie hair, pouting and posing in the back row. (The year before, she’d been crowned Miss East Finchley and it had gone to her head big time.) The lapels on her school blazer were turned up, the sleeves had been pushed to her elbows—
sooo
eighties—and her skirt was just a millimeter short of her knickers.
She was easily the most beautiful girl in the school, but although there were tons of boys and fawning Bernadette wannabes who hung around her, not everybody liked her. She had an aloof, sneering manner and made no secret of the fact she thought she was better than everybody else because she was pretty. On top of that her parents were well-off—at least by Crouch End High School standards. They owned a chain of betting shops. Rebecca remembered seeing them show up at the school summer fête one year in their metallic gold Rolls; him chewing on a fat cigar, her face caked in UltraGlow. But although they were a bit flash, they were bighearted, salt-of-the-earth types. Completely different from their daughter.
On
“And I would strongly advise your staff to wrap their phones in towels to avoid the possibility of being badly scalded. There’s a BT van outside full of towels.” He insisted that for legal reasons he needed to stay on the line and listen while they made the announcement. Which they duly did.
She should have realized that the whole story, the marriage, the champagne, the “don’t tell your grandmother,” was nothing more than a huge windup. And she’d fallen for it.
Marrying Bernadette O’Brien, yeah, right.
“Becks, you there?”
“Yeah, I’m here,” she said, laughing. “Very funny, Dad. You know you really had me going for a while.”
“I did. How? I don’t get it, what’s so funny about me marrying Bernadette?”
“Oh, come on, you know. She was . . .”
She broke off. It suddenly occurred to her that Stan seemed genuinely confused. In a horror-struck instant she realized that this was no windup.
“Dad, you’re serious, aren’t you?”
“Of course I am,” he said with an uneasy, slightly confused laugh.
She swallowed hard and raked her fingers through her hair.
“So, come on,” he repeated good-naturedly, “what’s so funny about me marrying Bernadette?”
There was, of course, nothing even remotely funny about him marrying Bernadette. On the contrary. It was one of the most hideous things she could imagine. But she didn’t dare tell him that. How could she? He was happier than he had been in years. She couldn’t hurt him by telling him the truth. Instead she had to backtrack. Fast.
“Sorry, Dad, I think we’ve been at cross-purposes. I was confusing Bernadette with another girl called O’Brien. This other one had buck teeth and terrible BO. I couldn’t believe you’d fallen for somebody like that.”
He laughed, obviously relieved. “So, you remember Bernadette now?”
“Of course I do,” Rebecca said, desperately trying to force some enthusiasm into her voice. “Who could forget Bernadette?”
“Brilliant. I’m sure the pair of you will have loads to catch up on.”
“Can’t wait.”
She put the glass to her lips and downed the remainder of her “Slim-Slow” in one gulp.
4
R
ebecca found the Crouch End High official school photograph (summer 1986—she was sixteen) rolled up on the top shelf of her wardrobe, along with a whole load of other memorabilia she didn’t have the heart to chuck out. This included copies of three pop numbers she’d written during her adolescent songwriting phase and sent to Wet Wet Wet—she was still waiting for a reply—and her Blue Peter badge from 1979 (for her poster promoting road safety).
She spotted Bernadette immediately with her doe eyes, perfect figure and mass of bleached Kylie hair, pouting and posing in the back row. (The year before, she’d been crowned Miss East Finchley and it had gone to her head big time.) The lapels on her school blazer were turned up, the sleeves had been pushed to her elbows—
sooo
eighties—and her skirt was just a millimeter short of her knickers.
She was easily the most beautiful girl in the school, but although there were tons of boys and fawning Bernadette wannabes who hung around her, not everybody liked her. She had an aloof, sneering manner and made no secret of the fact she thought she was better than everybody else because she was pretty. On top of that her parents were well-off—at least by Crouch End High School standards. They owned a chain of betting shops. Rebecca remembered seeing them show up at the school summer fête one year in their metallic gold Rolls; him chewing on a fat cigar, her face caked in UltraGlow. But although they were a bit flash, they were bighearted, salt-of-the-earth types. Completely different from their daughter.
On
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