his latest construct.
‘Ta-da! Can you tell what it is?’
It is, very clearly, his attempt at a magnificent recreation of an instantly-recognisable landmark.
Unfortunately, I haven’t a clue what it is.
‘It’s a cake?’ Mum offers.
Barry rolls his eyes. ‘It’s the Taj Mahal!’
She blinks at him. ‘But it’s brown.’
‘That’s because it’s made of gingerbread,’ he says. ‘
You
could tell what it was, couldn’t you, Lauren?’
‘Of course, it’s obvious,’ I reassure him, at which point the door opens and their house-guest walks in.
I’ve only met my mum’s second cousin’s son once, at the same wedding where I wore those bridesmaids’ gloves, when he was about four years old. He was sweet and shy, as I
recall, with ears like two shiitake mushrooms and a long fringe that kept troubling his eyes.
He’s scrubbed up well, particularly considering he’s spent the day dodging manure and herding livestock, and these days is unfeasibly tall and skinny, with a round face that’s
kind of handsome, if slightly foppish.
‘Hello Jeremy,’ I say, walking over as he reaches out to shake my hand. ‘It’s been such a long time. I’d love to say you haven’t changed a bit, but I’m
not sure how convincing that would be.’
Jeremy has the sort of handshake world leaders exchange at global summits: a single, elbow-dislocating chug, accompanied by eye contact that could singe retinas. ‘Lauren. Hi. Good to see
you again. You’re a teacher these days, I believe?’
‘That’s right, I work in—’
‘Hope you’re better than some of the losers we had working in our place,’ he declares, striding to the table. ‘I hated them all.’
‘Oh? What was wrong with them?’ I ask, carrying on laying the table. Mum starts flicking through the
Westmorland Gazette
.
‘I was predicted to get five A stars in my A levels, but as it is I . . . performed below my clear personal potential, which means I wasn’t able to get into Oxford. I was
totally
let down by them. Who knows where I might’ve been if it wasn’t for their fecklessness?’
Mum glances up briefly. ‘But you might have missed out on shovelling shit all summer and staying in our box room.’ Jeremy doesn’t answer. She goes on: ‘Before I forget,
Lauren – your birthday.’
‘What about it?’
‘I need to give you my present.’
‘But my birthday’s in August. That’s four months away.’
‘I know, but Cate gave me a ring and made a suggestion, so I thought we might as well go with it. Save me having to bother in August,’ she adds.
‘What a lovely sentiment,’ I mutter, as she heads upstairs, from where her printer, which I suspect may be gas-powered, springs into life and creates a similar sort of racket to one
of Caractacus Potts’ egg-boiling machines.
During this time, Barry and I have a discussion about football transfers before the conversation meanders on to the issue of whether Jeremy could have been a Parisian pastry chef were it not for
an incompetent Home Economics teacher who forgot to remove his macaroni cheese from the oven.
Eventually Mum emerges with a print-out that looks as if it’s been chewed by an Alsatian. ‘Sorry – paper jam. This was the best I can do.’
I peer at the crumpled A4 sheet, trying to make it out.
‘It’s a flight to Spain for this salsa holiday your friends are going on,’ she says, putting me out of my misery. ‘It was a real bargain. You’d better go home and
start packing.’
Chapter 12
The injection of a surprise trip into the school break lifts my spirits immeasurably, even if I feel slightly wary about how much I might need to spend while I’m out
there. Despite Cate repeating constantly what good value it all was, I know there’ll be a certain amount of alcoholic lubrication, which wasn’t part of the plan, given that I am still
saving. And I
am
still saving. Because, depending on what mood you catch me in, I am either chomping at the bit to
‘Ta-da! Can you tell what it is?’
It is, very clearly, his attempt at a magnificent recreation of an instantly-recognisable landmark.
Unfortunately, I haven’t a clue what it is.
‘It’s a cake?’ Mum offers.
Barry rolls his eyes. ‘It’s the Taj Mahal!’
She blinks at him. ‘But it’s brown.’
‘That’s because it’s made of gingerbread,’ he says. ‘
You
could tell what it was, couldn’t you, Lauren?’
‘Of course, it’s obvious,’ I reassure him, at which point the door opens and their house-guest walks in.
I’ve only met my mum’s second cousin’s son once, at the same wedding where I wore those bridesmaids’ gloves, when he was about four years old. He was sweet and shy, as I
recall, with ears like two shiitake mushrooms and a long fringe that kept troubling his eyes.
He’s scrubbed up well, particularly considering he’s spent the day dodging manure and herding livestock, and these days is unfeasibly tall and skinny, with a round face that’s
kind of handsome, if slightly foppish.
‘Hello Jeremy,’ I say, walking over as he reaches out to shake my hand. ‘It’s been such a long time. I’d love to say you haven’t changed a bit, but I’m
not sure how convincing that would be.’
Jeremy has the sort of handshake world leaders exchange at global summits: a single, elbow-dislocating chug, accompanied by eye contact that could singe retinas. ‘Lauren. Hi. Good to see
you again. You’re a teacher these days, I believe?’
‘That’s right, I work in—’
‘Hope you’re better than some of the losers we had working in our place,’ he declares, striding to the table. ‘I hated them all.’
‘Oh? What was wrong with them?’ I ask, carrying on laying the table. Mum starts flicking through the
Westmorland Gazette
.
‘I was predicted to get five A stars in my A levels, but as it is I . . . performed below my clear personal potential, which means I wasn’t able to get into Oxford. I was
totally
let down by them. Who knows where I might’ve been if it wasn’t for their fecklessness?’
Mum glances up briefly. ‘But you might have missed out on shovelling shit all summer and staying in our box room.’ Jeremy doesn’t answer. She goes on: ‘Before I forget,
Lauren – your birthday.’
‘What about it?’
‘I need to give you my present.’
‘But my birthday’s in August. That’s four months away.’
‘I know, but Cate gave me a ring and made a suggestion, so I thought we might as well go with it. Save me having to bother in August,’ she adds.
‘What a lovely sentiment,’ I mutter, as she heads upstairs, from where her printer, which I suspect may be gas-powered, springs into life and creates a similar sort of racket to one
of Caractacus Potts’ egg-boiling machines.
During this time, Barry and I have a discussion about football transfers before the conversation meanders on to the issue of whether Jeremy could have been a Parisian pastry chef were it not for
an incompetent Home Economics teacher who forgot to remove his macaroni cheese from the oven.
Eventually Mum emerges with a print-out that looks as if it’s been chewed by an Alsatian. ‘Sorry – paper jam. This was the best I can do.’
I peer at the crumpled A4 sheet, trying to make it out.
‘It’s a flight to Spain for this salsa holiday your friends are going on,’ she says, putting me out of my misery. ‘It was a real bargain. You’d better go home and
start packing.’
Chapter 12
The injection of a surprise trip into the school break lifts my spirits immeasurably, even if I feel slightly wary about how much I might need to spend while I’m out
there. Despite Cate repeating constantly what good value it all was, I know there’ll be a certain amount of alcoholic lubrication, which wasn’t part of the plan, given that I am still
saving. And I
am
still saving. Because, depending on what mood you catch me in, I am either chomping at the bit to
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