Wild Oats by Veronica Henry

that. It was generally agreed that, of all of them, Rod had done very well for himself and could, almost, be trusted.
    Rod drove down his parents’ pitted drive, not bothering to try and avoid the potholes, for it would have been impossible, but thanking God he was in the pick-up, and not his low-slung brand new sports car. He hadn’t mentioned that to his family yet. He’d been hoping to keep it quiet for a while, although it was inevitable that he or Bella would be spotted in it sooner or later by one of the Deacon tribe. He’d be in for a right ribbing then. They thought the Mitsubishi Warrior was flashy enough, with its twin cabs, its chrome accessories, its dark green metallic paint. On the side, in discreet gold lettering, was inscribed ‘Roderick Deacon, Handmade Bespoke Kitchens for the Discerning.’
    ‘Who are they then?’ his dad had asked. ‘Is that a posh word for disabled or something?’
    They’d wind him up about the Audi all right.
    Rod had long accepted that his family were allhypocrites, with double standards, resenting anything that smacked of achievement. After all, it wasn’t as if they didn’t all spend their lives in pursuit of money. Any means, as long as it wasn’t legitimate and preferably didn’t involve hard work. They’d scorned him for setting up properly in business. Practically fell off their chairs laughing when they found out he refused to do cash deals. But Rod had learned the hard way not to trust anyone. If you did cash deals, it was only a matter of time before someone grassed you up to the Inland Revenue or the VAT man, and life was already complicated enough.
    He swung the car into the yard in front of the house, avoiding the motley collection of bright plastic toys that had been reaped from car-boot sales over the years – two Cosy Coupés, a turtle sandbox, a Barbie bicycle, lethally abandoned rollerblades and a pair of quad bikes that had never worked since the day they’d been brought home. They had joined the queue of things waiting for repair: a battered old Land Rover, a washing machine with the drum removed. In the midst of this chaos stood a pristine set of iroko chairs and matching table shaded by a green parasol. Rod didn’t like to think of its provenance. No one in his family would have dreamed of forking out the best part of a grand for garden furniture. Two fat white Alsatians lifted their heads in interest as he climbed out of the cab, then, satisfied that he wasn’t an intruder, carried on their snoozing, their muddy tails thumping up and down to indicate they were pleasedto see him but really couldn’t be bothered to do anything about it.
    From out of nowhere appeared three children: Stacey, in pink plastic mules and an Eminem T-shirt that came down to her knees, Casey in a nappy and Bob the Builder wellingtons, and Jordan in top-to-toe Diadora, trainers flashing wildly as he raced to be the first to embrace his uncle. Rod detested the way his various brothers and sisters used his mother ruthlessly as an unpaid childminder for those of their offspring who were too young for school. Nolly insisted she didn’t mind, that was what grandmothers were for, but Rod objected to the way his siblings never gave her a second thought, didn’t consider that she might have a life of her own, and certainly never paid her for her time, or even gave her a box of chocolates or a bunch of flowers as a thank you. After all, Nolly was getting on now. He thought she deserved a rest, but she was far from likely to get one.
    Rod disentangled himself gently from a tangle of arms and kisses. The smell of Bazooka bubblegum and poo overwhelmed him.
    ‘Casey needs changing,’ Stacey informed him in her twenty-a-day rasp, brushing her too-long fringe out of her eyes.
    ‘Where’s Nana?’ asked Rod.
    ‘On the net,’ Jordan informed him solemnly. Rod rolled his eyes. His mother was no doubt trying to drum up publicity for his sister, Tanya, who had a Shania Twain tribute