Secrets by Nick Sharratt Page B

Mum’s birthday.
    â€˜Let’s go to La Terrazza!’ I said.
    â€˜Oh for God’s sake, India,’ Dad shouted.
    It was the worst choice ever. I hadn’t realized it was terribly expensive. Dad went on and on about it, asking if I thought he was made of money. He thought I’d choose McDonald’s like any other kid, maybe Pizza Express if I was pushing it – but La Terrazza was ridiculous. Still, he’d said I could go anywhere, so fine, right, never let it be said that he couldn’t keep his word. I was practically in tears by this time. I told him that I didn’t really want to go to La Terrazza and I’d
love
to go to McDonald’s – but Dad wouldn’t drop it. He took me to La Terrazza and I chose the dish of the day because it was supposed to be a bargain. It was a seafood spaghetti dish that looked horribly like cooked worms and slugs. I pretended it was delicious. I said I was having a lovely time. I told Dad he was wonderful, giving me such a treat. Dad ate lots too – and he drank a bottle of wine.
    I thought we’d leave the car outside the restaurant and get a taxi back home but Dad opened the car door, gesturing for me to get inside. I didn’t know what to do. I knew he shouldn’t be driving after all that drink (he’d also had a brandy while I struggled with three scoops of ice-cream) but I didn’t dare say anything in case he got mad again. He’d cheered up now. He said I was his little princess, the number-one girl in his life.
    So the number-one girl got in the car and crossed her fingers and prayed. He drove carefully enough, singing cod-Pavarotti arias: ‘Oh, La Terrazza, all the waiters are Prats-sa, we’ll give them no tips, why can’t we eat ch-i-ps . . .’ I laughed as if I thought he was the funniest man ever, peering out of the window as we drove through the Latimer Estate. I looked out for Treasure. I wanted to tell Dad all about her but I knew it wouldn’t work.
    One of the skateboarding boys swooped dangerously close to our car, only just jumping off in time, his skateboard going clunk against our bumper. Dad braked furiously and leapt out the car. He shouted at the boy. The boy shouted something much ruder back, and stuck his finger up in the air before running away. While Dad was angrily examining his scratched paintwork, Mrs Watkins who lives next door to Treasure’s nan came shuffling past, her weird grown-up son loping along beside her, swinging their Safeway’s bags.
    â€˜Watch them bags, Michael! Don’t bash them like that,’ she grumbled.
    â€˜Sorry, Mum,’ Michael said meekly – but when he saw me sitting in the car he stuck his tongue out and waggled it behind his mother’s back. I smiled politely. Dad looked up, frowning at both of us. He got back in the car, slamming the door.
    â€˜What a stinky dumping ground this is,’ he said, driving away. ‘Foul-mouthed little vandals and total nutters. They should all be locked up. I wish we didn’t live so close by.’
    I wondered what Dad would say if he knew I’d been to tea here with my best friend. I was desperate to see her again but I knew it was better to bide my time. When we got back home Wanda greeted us wistfully, asking all about the meal. I felt bad, wishing Dad had invited her too. Mum was out again. She’d left a note to say she’d gone to an art exhibition with Bella, Miranda’s mum.
    â€˜Big Belly-Button,’ said Dad, crumpling up the note.
    Bella isn’t really big, she’s got a lovely figure, and her belly is as flat as a pancake but Dad always acts like she looks awful. Maybe he tried to chat her up once and she wasn’t interested? I quite like chatting to Bella myself because she treats me like a real person and she doesn’t always seem to be sniggering up her sleeve at me. I’d have normally been hurt that they hadn’t asked me