Life According To...Alice B. Lovely Read online

  He went to live with his mate Eric after that, till he got his flat in that new block overlooking the canal. That’s where we stay every Tuesday and Friday night now, plus all day Saturday. Dad tells people that this is his “quality time” with us, which is a good description, I guess, if you think watching your dad working on his computer while you catalogue strange things floating in the canal counts as “quality time”.

  Mum fibs quite a lot as well – she tells everyone that the split is “amicable”. In most dictionaries, “amicable” means “friendly”. But Mum obviously uses a different dictionary, one where “amicable” means “horrible”.

  “OK, Justine, message understood,” says Dad, holding his hands up in surrender. “From now on, I will ring the doorbell. Or maybe phone first, to see if I have your permission to ring the doorbell. Or would you like me to get my solicitor to get in touch with your solicitor, to see if it’s all right for me to return Stan’s sports bag?”

  “There’s no need for that, Neil!” Mum says sharply.

  Right, time for me and Stan to go. Listening to your parents having hissy fits with each other is about as much of a laugh as getting sand kicked in your eyes.

  “Come on,” I say to Stan, pulling him by the sleeve of his school shirt. “Let’s leave Mum and Dad to enjoy their argument…”

  “We’re not arguing, Edie!” they burst out at the same time, then get flustered with shock at agreeing on something for once. Even if it happens to be a lie.

  “Whoops – silly me for thinking that you were!” I say sarcastically.

  Stan nuzzles into my side. He goes pretty silent at times like these.

  “Your dad and I get on fine,” Mum announces. “Don’t we, Neil?”

  “Yes, of course!” Dad replies, through gritted teeth.

  Wow, how lousy is it when your own parents are world-class BFPs?

  “In fact, Neil – I’m glad you’re here,” Mum carries on, widening her mouth in what I think is supposed to look like a smile. “I just found out that I have to go away for a work conference on the Saturday after next, to plan the new design range. I won’t be back till late, so would you be all right to have Edie and Stan stay for two nights instead of one?”

  “Well … no, actually,” Dad answers bluntly. “I was going to ask you to have the kids that Saturday! I’ve got a really important meeting with a new client then. It’s out of town, so I might have to stay over and—”

  Mum’s fake smile flicks off. “And when were you planning to tell me about this?”

  Uh-oh, here we go again. I nudge Stan and, arms around each other, we take a few backwards steps, like we’re doing a three-legged race in reverse.

  “I only just had it confirmed ten minutes ago!” Dad says defensively, brandishing his BlackBerry. “You’re not the only one with a career, you know, Justine!”

  “Yeah, a career I can’t do properly because you keep letting me down, and now Miranda has just walked out and—”

  “Well, it’s hardly my fault if—”

  CLUNK!

  I shut the kitchen door and shut out the sniping.

  “Stress snack?” I suggest to Stan.

  “Mmm,” he mumbles, looking up at me with his Malteser eyes.

  We head off to my room, where we’ll raid the box under the bed that I keep my stash of KitKats, Rolos and other assorted yumminess in. There’s a handwritten note taped to the top of the box that says: “EDIE AND STAN’S EMRGIZEE CHOCLIT – HANDS OF!” (Hopefully, you’ll have a pretty good idea which one of us wrote that.)

  I came up with the idea of stress snacks when our parents gave up on saving their arguments till after Stan went to bed.

  It was obviously around the time I gave up on trying to pretend to my little brother that everything was OK with our family.

  Speaking of time, as we slouch off towards my room and the awaiting emergency chocolate (Snickers for me, Mars Bar for Stan) the antique clock of doom on the hall table chimes to let us know it’s quarter past five.

  With every dull, slightly out-of-tune chime that old clock makes, my heart sinks.

  It arrived when my parents started fighting more, and it’s like a permanent reminder (tick-tock, tick-tock) that there’s something wrong, all wrong, with our family.

  You know, sometimes I feel like picking it up and chucking it out of the window. How great would it feel to see it smashed to pieces and silent on the pavement?

  Then me and Stan could go shopping for a new clock. One that’s bright, shiny white instead of old, dark wood. One that tinkles prettily on the hour, making a sound that almost gets you giggling.

  A clock that makes you excited about what’s coming next, instead of dreading it.

  Yep, that’s what me and Stan need: a happiness clock.

  But what’s the point of wishing for things that don’t exist or will never happen?

  It’s better not to think about the future.

  All I can do is try and make the here and now OK for Stan.

  “D’you want my Snickers bar too?” I whisper to my brother, as I push my bedroom door open.

  “Yay!” Stan yells in a whisper back.

  “One condition,” I add. “Just don’t be sick afterwards…”

  See? I am such a caring sister.

  Tash is in love.

  “Check this out!” she says, holding up her phone for me to see.

  “Wow, it’s twenty-five to four!” I say sarcastically, as I stare at the time digitally displayed on her screen.

  “Oops – not that. This!” she giggles, swiping and pressing before presenting the phone to me again.

  It’s her latest photos of Max.

  Max at the beach, Max sitting on the steps by the churchyard, Max lounging on Tash’s bed, Max bent over and licking his…

  “Ugh! That is disgusting!” I say, wincing.

  Max might be one very cute puppy, but this particular pose isn’t exactly picturesque.

  “Oh, I meant to delete that one,” says Tash, pressing a button on her phone.

  “You’ll be taking pictures of him pooing in the park next!” I grumble as we stroll out of the annexe where the after-school club is held.

  I’m strolling because I’m in no rush to meet whoever will be picking me up at the school gate. It’ll be just another agency nanny, someone Mum will have sorted out at short notice to replace Miranda, and had to pay a fortune for the privilege. This stranger will have collected Stan from his primary school down the road, and will be holding his hand, without caring or knowing anything about him. The fact that his favourite Smarties are the blue ones and that he wants to be either a Lego designer or a crocodile when he grows up would probably disinterest her no end.

  “Edie! What’s wrong with you today?” Tash suddenly bursts in. “You’re in a really rubbish mood!”

  Tash is my best friend, and I feel sorry for her sometimes. Being my best friend must be really hard work. I mean, I’ve always been kind of sarcastic, while she’s quite sunshiney. But I think the last few months I’ve become ever more gloomy and I’m worried she might have run out of rays of sunshine while trying to brighten me up.

  And she’s right (of course). I am in a more-rubbish-than-usual mood today. Part of it is ’cause it was zero fun seeing Mum and Dad grouching with each other last night. At least with them living apart, me and Stan normally just have to put up with them being all stiff and distant when they’re dropping us off between flats. I lay awake for ages last night, running over the sniping again and again, while the clock of doom ominously clacked the after-midnight hours away.

  Another reason for the more-rubbish-than-usual mood is that my head has been maddeningly itchy, as the old nits appear to have been partying with the new nits. (Not for much longer; I’m going to spend my allowance on nuclear-strength head-lice shampoo later, since Mum keep
s forgetting to buy any.)

  Yet another reason is because I just heard the biggest, fattest, phoniest line ever this afternoon.

  “Just believe in your dreams, and they really will come true!”

  How phoney is that?

  You’ve heard it before, I’m sure; celebs always like to trot that out in their cheesy magazine interviews. The trouble is, it’s easy to say when you’re wildly successful, isn’t it? But out of one hundred per cent of people holding tight to some kind of precious dream, you can bet that less than .0000001 per cent will ever have their dreams come true.

  Yes, I made that fact up, but I’m pretty sure I believe it.

  “I didn’t like that woman today. She got on my nerves,” I tell Tash, as I try to explain myself.

  “Yeah? But you love her books!”

  We’re talking about this author of vampire novels who’d come to do a talk at our school for Book Week. I’m not going to say her name, ’cause that’ll just give her free publicity, and she doesn’t deserve any. I mean, she talked about her latest book and how she wrote it, which was interesting and brilliant and everything. Then it got to the bit where we could ask questions, and Charlotte Adamson stuck her hand up and said, “I’ve got an idea for a book. Do you think it’ll get published one day?”

  And the author-who-I-won’t-name said; “Well, if you just believe in your dreams, they will come true!”

  Blam.

  That’s when I went from total fan to complete ex-fan.

  At the same time, Charlotte Adamson was suddenly all flustery with excitement, already planning her outfit for the Book Of The Year Awards and thinking what type of luxury flat she’d buy with all the money she’s going to make from her bestseller.

  But what everyone except the author-who-I-won’t-name knows is that Charlotte Adamson has all the writing ability of a brick and her book idea is so bad it hurts.

  Next thing, the author-who-I-won’t-name turned away from Charlotte Adamson and asked if there were any other questions.

  Big mistake.

  As you may have spotted, I am excellent at hitting people with questions they aren’t going to like.

  So up went my hand and I said, “Charlotte’s book idea; it’s about a goat.”

  “A goat with magic eyes!” Charlotte Adamson chipped in, all smiles.

  “So,” I carried on, “do you think you could help her get it published?”

  Mr Newsome, the teacher, had to step in at that point, because the author-who-I-won’t-name was wriggling uncomfortably. She could now see that it didn’t matter how much Charlotte dreamt the dream, a novel about a magic-eyed goat just isn’t going to get book publishers rushing to pay her JK Rowling-style squillions.

  “She was a complete BFP,” I tell Tash, as I start to scan the small huddle of waiting adults at the gates, some with little brothers and sisters and dogs in tow. They’re the ones who live far enough away to drive their kids home. Everyone else walks home alone. Everyone except me, since my mum seems to be under the illusion that I am in fact five years old, and not a teenager at secondary school.

  “That woman didn’t like it when she realized what she’d written in your book,” says Tash, sticking her phone in her bag.

  You bet she didn’t. The author-who-I-won’t-name was signing books afterwards, and I’d already bought my copy in advance (before I realized she was a BFP). She swirled her fancy signature and then asked what my name was.

  “Ellie…” I lied, watching her purple pen scribble on the title page, “Phant. That’s P-H-A-N-T.”

  She’d frowned up at me, wondering why I’d want to take the mickey out of her and deface my own book at the same time.

  I didn’t waste an explanation on her, but if I’d wanted to, I’d have said I just fancied messing with her mind, the way she’d messed with Charlotte Adamson’s.

  And if there hadn’t been a queue of my classmates waiting to get their books signed (with their real names inside) I’d’ve taken out my phone and shown her a photo of Stan, in all his smiling, freckled glory. I’d’ve said, “See this kid? His dream is that our mum and dad will get back together. And no matter how much he believes it, trust me, it’s not going to happen. So if someone like you goes around getting people’s hopes up about stuff, well, it’s basically plain cruel.”

  “Hey, Edie – there’s Stan,” I heard Tash say in a strangely confused way. “But he doesn’t look like he’s with anyone!”

  I stare where she’s staring.

  Sure enough, the straggle of adults by the big metal gate are all familiar faces, come to collect their kids and ferry them home in a selection of cars, all parked along the tree-lined street. But there is no unknown face there; no agency stranger holding my little brother’s hand.

  “Stan!” I call over, and he waves at me brightly. His new school blazer is way too big for him and he looks comically small standing there on his own.

  In a few rushed seconds we’re with him, and he is looking very pleased with himself.

  “I walked here all on my own, Edie!” he beams. “I was ever so very careful crossing the road!”

  “But why are you on your own? Didn’t you get picked up?” asks Tash.

  “Nobody came!” he says simply.

  “But your teachers – what did they say? And why did they let you go?” I ask, knowing how strict his school is about kids and their safety.

  “I think Miss Stewart went to the office to see if anyone called. And Miss Jessop was at the gate, but then Cody fell off the monkey bars and was screaming and when Miss Jessop went to see if he’d broken anything I pretended I’d seen you and just left.”

  “You shouldn’t have done that, Stan!” I tell him, cross with worry.

  But at the same time, I feel a little flurry of excitement.

  So maybe the agency mucked up; so maybe this is the perfect opportunity to prove something to Mum…

  Most of the time it feels as if it’s me and Stan against the world, but now and then it’s like the world owes us a break.

  It’s five p.m., according to the chiming clock of doom in the hall, and I am lying on the sofa reading, with Radio One burbling in the background and a huge bag of nachos by my side.

  Stan is scuttling about on his bedroom floor, constructing his latest Lego mega-structure while popping M&M’s.

  There is pasta boiling in the kitchen, and broccoli too, and I have grated some cheese for Stan, even though cheese is evil and me and it do NOT get along.

  Oh, yes, everything is under control and Mum is going to be super impressed. She is going to see that me and Stan are absolutely fine on our own, and she will never again feel the need to inflict an unwanted nanny on us.

  She will then tell Dad that we can be home alone, no problemo, and he can sack gum-chewing Cheryl – by text, probably, since that’s the only way she communicates.

  It’s going to be great!

  Ding dong!

  Who’s that? Mum without her keys? Maybe. Her work bag is this giant, sloppy, tan leather sack thing that she loves ’cause she can fit in her work laptop, a pair of flat shoes and her packed lunch. In amongst that lot, her keys often take about a year to find.

  I jump up off the sofa and abandon my book in the muddle of squashy sofa cushions.

  “Is that Mum?” asks Stan, joining me in the hall. He’s carrying a complex-looking Lego structure that’s probably meant to be a space shuttle or something I guess I should recognize.

  “I suppose so,” I tell him, as I go to grab the door latch. “Though she’s a bit early…”

  Since the company she works for promoted her to head designer last year, Mum has never been home before seven p.m., and if there’s a deadline happening, she can be out till way past Stan’s bedtime. It’s always extra lousy then. Just me and some random nanny on our own. Imagine the thrills and excitement
of back-to-back soaps on telly (snore…).

  “Mum, wait till you see my Lego armadillo!” Stan calls out, ever hopeful.

  And prepare to be amazed and impressed by how capable we are, Mum! I think to myself, with a sideways glance at Stan’s unidentifiable work of Lego art.

  “It’s only me, Edith!” says Mrs Kosma.

  Mrs Kosma is our older-than-old neighbour from downstairs. She is very small (about up to my nose) and very wide. She has an amazing selection of (wide) black dresses. When they are hanging on the washing line in the communal garden downstairs, it’s like a pirate ship has just run aground, with sails flapping.

  “Hello, Mrs Kosma,” I say politely.

  I wonder why she is here. She sometimes comes and has a general moan to Mum about the state of the bin area or the bloke directly above her who likes to play Queen’s “We Will Rock You” ten times in a row when he gets back in from the pub.

  But Mum isn’t due in from work for at least another twenty minutes, and Mrs Kosma would know that, since she is the resident net-twitching, nosey old lady in our block of flats.

  (“Me? Oh, I just like to be friendly!” she’ll explain, in her Big Fat Phoney old lady way.)

  “Edith, your mama, she has asked me to come up here and look after you and Stanley,” she says, taking a step forward, plainly expecting to come into our flat.

  I don’t move.

  Why would Mum do that? As far as she knows, we’ve been picked up from school by some agency nanny. And I hadn’t planned on letting her know that no one turned up till she got the chance to see that me and Stan have managed to look after ourselves without any help, thank you very much.

  “Your mama, she called me when—”

  BANG!

  Mrs Kosma’s explanation hangs in mid-air as we hear the main door to the flats slam closed and panicked high-heeled footsteps click-clack up the stairs to the first floor.

  “Is that you, Justine?” Mrs Kosma calls out. “I am here with the children!”

  Oh, how I hate being called a ‘child’.

  I am so not, and here’s the proof: