favourite stories?’
‘Okay. I want the one about when you were ballet-dancing in Vienna and a prince took you to his palace for a ball.’
‘It’s a deal,’ Helena agreed. ‘Go on, off you go.’
As her two children disappeared into the house, she picked up her mobile and dialled home.
‘Hello, darling,’ said William. ‘Supper a success?’
‘I’ll leave it to your imagination.’
‘Perhaps that’s best. So, good day?’
‘Eventful.’
‘Sounds like it. Who’s the prince Immy told me about?’
‘Oh, just the son of an old friend.’
‘Right.’ There was a pause. ‘Helena, darling,’ said William, slowly, ‘I want to ask you something.’
‘What?’
‘I . . . well, I’m not sure how to tell you this, but . . . it’s Chloë.’
‘Is she all right?’
‘Oh yes, she’s fine, apparently. Though I can only go on what her house-mistress at school tells me, as you know. However, I received a letter from her mother today.’
‘A letter? From Cecile? My goodness!’ Helena breathed. ‘She actually put pen to paper? That’s nothing short of a miracle for your ex-wife, isn’t it,
darling?’
‘It is rather, but the thing is . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘She wants Chloë to fly over and spend some time with us in Cyprus.’
ALEX’S DIARY
11th July (continued)
This holiday, to quote my baby sister, gets ranker by the second.
Mosquitoes, heat, old houses in the middle of an arid field where they’ve never heard of broadband and a grape-stamper wanting to stamp himself all over my mother. Not to
mention Jules, Sacha, Viola and Rupes – their Neanderthal, brain-dead son – coming to stay next week.
I wish I could start a campaign on behalf of all Kids of Parents Who Are Best Friends, to raise awareness for the kids’ plight. Just because the oldies used to share sweeties
and secrets when they were younger, then moved on to alcohol and eventually potty-training together, does not necessarily mean that the
children
of Best Friends will feel the same about
their counterpart offspring.
My heart always sinks when I hear those immortal words, ‘Alex, darling, the Chandlers are coming over. You will be nice to Rupes, won’t you?’
‘Well, yes,’ I reply, ‘I will try, Mother dearest.’ But when Rupes thumps me accidentally on purpose in the bollocks during a ‘friendly’ rugby
tackle, or goes screaming to his mum accusing me of breaking his PSP when he dropped it on the floor originally and I stood on it because I didn’t know it was there, it can be pretty tough
going.
Rupes is about the same age as me, which makes it really bad. And we’re chalk and cheese. He’s probably everything my stepfather William would like as a son: great at
ballsports, jocular, popular . . . and a right evil bastard when no one else is looking. He’s also as thick as two short planks, thinks Homer is the star of
The Simpsons
and
that’s why he’s famous for his philosophy.
We don’t have a lot in common, Rupes and me. He has a little sister called Viola, all red hair, freckles and rabbity teeth, with a complexion that’s so pale she fades
into the background like a small ghost. Mum once told me she’s adopted. If I was the Chandlers, I’d have stuck out for a child that at least vaguely resembled my gene pool, but maybe
Viola was all that was available at the time. And due to Rupes’ overpowering presence and her timidity, I can’t really say I know who she is.
To cap it all, Mum’s just informed me that my stepsister, Chloë, is coming to stay here too. I only remember her vaguely, because I haven’t seen her for six years.
The BFH – Bitch From Hell – as she is affectionately known in our household, who is my stepdad’s ex-wife, stopped Chloë seeing her father when Mum got pregnant with Immy.
Poor Dad. He tried everything to see her, he really did. But the BFH had brainwashed Chloë into believing her father was the devil incarnate because he wouldn’t buy her
ice
‘Okay. I want the one about when you were ballet-dancing in Vienna and a prince took you to his palace for a ball.’
‘It’s a deal,’ Helena agreed. ‘Go on, off you go.’
As her two children disappeared into the house, she picked up her mobile and dialled home.
‘Hello, darling,’ said William. ‘Supper a success?’
‘I’ll leave it to your imagination.’
‘Perhaps that’s best. So, good day?’
‘Eventful.’
‘Sounds like it. Who’s the prince Immy told me about?’
‘Oh, just the son of an old friend.’
‘Right.’ There was a pause. ‘Helena, darling,’ said William, slowly, ‘I want to ask you something.’
‘What?’
‘I . . . well, I’m not sure how to tell you this, but . . . it’s Chloë.’
‘Is she all right?’
‘Oh yes, she’s fine, apparently. Though I can only go on what her house-mistress at school tells me, as you know. However, I received a letter from her mother today.’
‘A letter? From Cecile? My goodness!’ Helena breathed. ‘She actually put pen to paper? That’s nothing short of a miracle for your ex-wife, isn’t it,
darling?’
‘It is rather, but the thing is . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘She wants Chloë to fly over and spend some time with us in Cyprus.’
ALEX’S DIARY
11th July (continued)
This holiday, to quote my baby sister, gets ranker by the second.
Mosquitoes, heat, old houses in the middle of an arid field where they’ve never heard of broadband and a grape-stamper wanting to stamp himself all over my mother. Not to
mention Jules, Sacha, Viola and Rupes – their Neanderthal, brain-dead son – coming to stay next week.
I wish I could start a campaign on behalf of all Kids of Parents Who Are Best Friends, to raise awareness for the kids’ plight. Just because the oldies used to share sweeties
and secrets when they were younger, then moved on to alcohol and eventually potty-training together, does not necessarily mean that the
children
of Best Friends will feel the same about
their counterpart offspring.
My heart always sinks when I hear those immortal words, ‘Alex, darling, the Chandlers are coming over. You will be nice to Rupes, won’t you?’
‘Well, yes,’ I reply, ‘I will try, Mother dearest.’ But when Rupes thumps me accidentally on purpose in the bollocks during a ‘friendly’ rugby
tackle, or goes screaming to his mum accusing me of breaking his PSP when he dropped it on the floor originally and I stood on it because I didn’t know it was there, it can be pretty tough
going.
Rupes is about the same age as me, which makes it really bad. And we’re chalk and cheese. He’s probably everything my stepfather William would like as a son: great at
ballsports, jocular, popular . . . and a right evil bastard when no one else is looking. He’s also as thick as two short planks, thinks Homer is the star of
The Simpsons
and
that’s why he’s famous for his philosophy.
We don’t have a lot in common, Rupes and me. He has a little sister called Viola, all red hair, freckles and rabbity teeth, with a complexion that’s so pale she fades
into the background like a small ghost. Mum once told me she’s adopted. If I was the Chandlers, I’d have stuck out for a child that at least vaguely resembled my gene pool, but maybe
Viola was all that was available at the time. And due to Rupes’ overpowering presence and her timidity, I can’t really say I know who she is.
To cap it all, Mum’s just informed me that my stepsister, Chloë, is coming to stay here too. I only remember her vaguely, because I haven’t seen her for six years.
The BFH – Bitch From Hell – as she is affectionately known in our household, who is my stepdad’s ex-wife, stopped Chloë seeing her father when Mum got pregnant with Immy.
Poor Dad. He tried everything to see her, he really did. But the BFH had brainwashed Chloë into believing her father was the devil incarnate because he wouldn’t buy her
ice
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