Never Mind Miss Fox by Olivia Glazebrook Page A

hall behind Eliza. “What’s the problem?” She spoke in a low voice. If they were going to have an argument she did not want it carrying to Eliot’s sensitive ears.
    â€œI want to go.”
    â€œWell, I don’t,” announced Eliza. “You said yes to pizzas. You said. ”
    â€œNo I didn’t.”
    â€œWhy—are—you—such—a—P—I—G?” Eliza retreated—slow, meaningful steps on her sneakered feet—into the house.
    This was mutiny. Clive somehow felt that if he stepped over the threshold all would be lost.
    Martha leaned forward towards him and hissed, “What the fuck is your problem?”
    â€œYou’re drunk.”
    â€œSo? You’re being a dick. ”
    Now Clive began to panic. “Your breath smells of champagne,” he accused her, wrinkling his nose.
    Martha laughed in his face.
    Eliza shouted from the hall, “Why do we have to go home? There’s nothing at home. Nothing. We never do anything, we never go anywhere and you don’t have any friends.”
    Eliot stepped forward from the shadowed room. “Hello, Clive,” she said. “Do you want to get back? But listen—” she turned to Martha, “Eliza doesn’t have to go. She can stay with me, for pizza, if she wants. I can bring her back to you later.”
    â€œYes!”—this was Eliza, pirouetting on the bare floor.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œYes-yes-yes!”
    â€œWhy not? It’s a good idea,” Martha said to her husband.
    â€œI said, no, OK? We’ve got plans for the evening already, remember?”
    This was not—quite—a lie, but nor was it a reason. Martha looked at him for a moment more but then she turned away and told Eliza to get her rucksack. “Don’t argue and stop showing off. Just do as you’re told.”
    Clive had won. He stood on the step and waited. Sunlight pressed the back of his head.
    â€œWe can have pizzas next time,” Eliot said to Eliza. “And by the way: never mind ‘Miss Fox,’ OK? Call me Eliot. Miss Fox sounds so… wicked. ” Her eyes sparkled as she smiled at Eliza.
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    The compliment of familiarity made Eliza’s day; her mood was restored at once. She skipped along the street ahead of her parents.
    â€œWe’re taking a taxi,” said Martha.
    â€œThere won’t be one all the way out here,” countered Clive.
    Martha stuck out her hand and, on cue, a black cab stopped beside it. Martha was triumphant. “Serves you bloody well right for being such a toad,” she said. Her words seemed all to loll out together like an unrolling bandage—she must have drunk more than she thought. The air in the back of the cab seemed awfully close and she was sliding around on the seat as if it were the deck of a ship. Feeling suddenly sick, she opened the window.
    â€œDon’t do that,” snapped Clive. “The air-conditioning is on.”
    â€œI want fresh air,” said Martha, with an edge in her voice. “Not conditioned air.”
    Eliza was facing them from one of the jump seats and trying to make it flip up with her folded inside. They did not often take taxis—Martha was strict about public transport—so she was determined to make the most of the trip. “This is going to be so expensive,” she said happily. “It’s miles to get home.” Her observation was greeted with silence. Looking from one parent to the other she saw two grim, set expressions; both faces turned to the window.
    Arguments worried her. She thought of something to say that might interest them both: “Miss Fox—I mean Eliot—” she paused to blush and then repeat the name, “Eliot says air-conditioning gives her migraines.”
    â€œThat’s impossible.” Her father did not turn to face her but addressed the passing traffic.
    â€œWhy?” asked Eliza.
    â€œYes, why?”