Just a Girl, Standing in Front of a Boy by Lucy-Anne Holmes Page B

excited squeals of a best friend marrying the man of her dreams?’
    ‘Will you be bridesmaid?’
    ‘I suppose.’ She shrugs, but I think I see a flicker of a smile at the corner of her mouth.
    ‘You just smiled.’
    ‘It slipped out. I was thinking about dresses. I don’t want to get carried away thinking about dresses. A dress does not a happy marriage make.’
    ‘Oh, please, get carried away thinking about dresses with me. Please.’
    ‘This is really hard for me, Fan.’
    ‘It’s harder for me. This is supposed to be a happy time and you’re shouting at me.’
    ‘Sorry.’
    ‘We are cool, aren’t we?’
    ‘We’ll always be cool.’
    ‘Promise?’
    ‘Yes.’
    We hug. But it doesn’t feel right. It doesn’t
feel
cool. It’s as though something has shifted between the two of us and the pain of it is making my eyes sting.
    ‘What are you doing tonight?’ I muster.
    ‘There’s a gig on in Nunstone, if you fancy it.’
    ‘I’ve got Mum staying, I don’t think I can leave her for a second night.’
    ‘Shall we do the Tiddlesbury Tour for her tomorrow?’
    ‘But she knows Tiddlesbury already!’
    ‘She hasn’t been here for years, though.’
    Mum and Dad moved away from the area about a year after I left school.
    ‘Okay,’ I nod, more because I want to spend time with Philippa than show the tour to my mum.
    ‘What’s the dress code?’
    ‘I think air hostesses works best.’
    ‘Your mum likes
Countryfile
, she was telling me last night, maybe we could do wellies and wool.’
    ‘Ooh, I like it.’
    ‘Anyway, we’ll decide tomorrow.’
    ‘My mum’s staying with me. I can’t believe it,’ I say as I walk to the door.
    ‘I can. Your mum married the wrong man and eventually left him twenty-seven years later.’
    ‘See you tomorrow,’ I say quickly. I have to go or she’ll make me cry.

Chapter 11
    Mum’s still in bed. It’s 2.15 p.m. If I let her sleep all day, she’ll never sleep tonight, and it’s horrible lying awake at night, but then it’s not nice being woken up in the day. What to do? I creep in the room and hover over her. The Victoria Beckham bob sticks, sweaty and matted, to one cheek along with most of last night’s black eye make-up, the rest of it is on my white pillow. The faint aroma of booze hangs over her. But I suddenly feel a surge of warmth towards my mum. She’s finally doing her own thing, away from my dad.
    The main rule in our family household was that my dad made the rules. Growing up this didn’t strike me as odd because it was all I knew. But some of the things I remember from my childhood make me shiver now that I think about them as an adult. One particularly freaky situation can turn itself over and over in my head if I’m not careful. My mum used to have her own car. I remember how thrilled she was to have a car of her own. It was a little second-hand Vauxhall and every night when my father came home from work he would stand next to the Vauxhall and look through the window of the driver’s side. Then he would take a small notebook out of his inside jacket pocket and with a tiny pencil that was always sharp, he would note down her mileage. She literally had to justify every mile she travelled in that car. When the little Vauxhall died and went to motoring heaven years later, Mum said she didn’t want another car. I’m not surprised. We both lived in fear of my dad. I know that now. But when I was little I used to wish she’d stand up for me against him. God, it used to hurt me that she didn’t. For a long time I was angry with her. But I don’t have so much anger now, I feel more sad. She was just scared like me. Yet look at her now. Sleeping off a hangover in the afternoon. I almost feel a little proud. As if in response to thoughts of my father, my mum lets out a good, long, loud fart.
    ‘Oh, you dirty dog!’ I laugh.
    She jolts awake, then slowly clutches her head. She emits a whispered squeak which sounds like,