‘I thought you paid fees,’ I say, puzzled. ‘Why do you need to make a donation?’
‘The fees are only the beginning,’ says Suze, as though I understand nothing. ‘Then there’s the fund-raising and the school charity and the collections for the teachers. I spend my whole life writing out cheques.’
‘And then, on top of that, they’re mean to you?’
‘Yes.’ Suze suddenly looks a bit miserable. ‘But it is a very good school.’
God, this whole school malarkey sounds a nightmare. Maybe I’ll find an alternative. Maybe I’ll educate Minnie at home. Or at least, not at home. That would be boring. We could do our lessons in … Harvey Nicks! God, yes. Perfect. I can just see myself now, sitting at a little table, sipping a latte and reading Minnie interesting bits of culture from the paper. We could do sums with the sugar cubes and geography in the International Designer Room. People would call me The Girl Who Teaches Her Child in Harvey Nicks and I could start a whole international trend of in-shop schooling—
‘Hey, Bex.’ Suze has stopped swinging and is squinting suspiciously at my velvet top. ‘Is that my top? Is that the one I lent you when we first moved in together?’ She’s getting off the swing. ‘And I asked you for it back and you said it got burnt accidentally in a bonfire?’
‘Er …’ I automatically take a step backwards.
That story’s ringing a bell. Why did I say I burnt it? I can’t remember now, it’s so long ago.
‘It is!’ She’s examining it closely. ‘It’s that Monsoon top! Fenny lent it to me and I lent it to you and you said you couldn’t find it and then you said it had got burnt! Do you know what a hard time Fenny gave me about that?’
‘You can have it back,’ I say hastily. ‘Sorry.’
‘I don’t want it back now.’ She peers at me incredulously. ‘Why are you wearing it, anyway?’
‘Because it was in my wardrobe,’ I say morosely. ‘And I’ve agreed to wear everything in my wardrobe three times before I go shopping for clothes again.’
‘What?’ Suze sounds staggered. ‘But … why?’
‘It was after the bank went bust. We made a deal. Luke’s not buying a car and I’m not buying any new clothes. Not till October.’
‘But Bex.’ Suze looks really concerned. ‘Isn’t that bad for your health? I mean, isn’t it dangerous to go cold turkey? I saw this TV show once. People go shaky and have blackouts. Have you felt shaky at all?’
‘Yes!’ I stare at her, riveted. ‘I felt really shaky when I walked past the Fenwick sale the other day!’
Oh my God. It never occurred to me that by giving up shopping I could be jeopardizing my health. Should I see a doctor?
‘And what about Luke’s party?’
‘Sssh!’ I say fiercely, looking around the empty garden in paranoia. ‘Don’t tell everyone! What about it?’
‘Aren’t you going to get a new dress?’ mouths Suze silently.
‘Of course I am—’ I stop dead.
That hadn’t even occurred to me. I can’t get a new dress for Luke’s party, can I? Not while our deal is still on.
‘No,’ I say at last. ‘I can’t. I’ll have to wear something out of my wardrobe. I promised him.’
Suddenly I feel a bit flat. I mean, not that I was holding the party just so I could have a new dress. But still.
‘So … how is the party going?’ asks Suze after a pause.
‘Really great!’ I say at once, in a brushing-off way. ‘All fine. I’ll send you an invitation when they’re ready.’
‘Good! And you don’t need any help or anything?’
‘Help?’ I say a bit sharply. ‘Why would I need help? It’s all totally under control.’
I’ll show her. Wait till she sees my shopping-bag pom-poms.
‘Excellent! Well, I look forward to it. I’m sure it’ll be brilliant.’ She starts swinging again, not meeting my eye.
She doesn’t believe me, does she? I know she doesn’t. I’m about to challenge her when a shout draws my attention.
‘There they are! There are the devils!’ A middle-aged man with a red face is coming out of the house next-door to this one, gesticulating at me.
‘Who’s that?’ murmurs Suze.
‘Dunno,’ I say in an undertone. ‘We’ve never met the neighbours. The estate agents said an old man lived there. They said he was ill and never left the house … Can I help you?’ I raise my voice.
‘Help me?’ He glares at me. ‘You could help by explaining what you’ve done to my house! I’m calling the police!’
Suze and I exchange wary glances. Am I moving in next to a nutter?
‘I haven’t done anything to your house!’ I call back.
‘Well, who’s stolen my bedrooms then?’
What?
Before I can answer, our estate agent bustles out into the garden. He’s called Magnus and wears chalk-striped suits and has a very low, discreet voice.
‘Mrs Brandon, I’ll deal with this. Is there a problem?’ he says, ‘Mr …’
‘Evans.’ The man approaches Magnus and they have a conversation over the garden fence, which I can only hear tiny snippets of. But since those snippets include the words sue, outrageous and daylight robbery, I’m agog.
‘You don’t think anything’s wrong, do you?’ I say anxiously to Suze.
‘Of course not!’ she says at once in reassuring tones. ‘It’s probably just some little neighbourly misunderstanding. One of those things you can clear up over a cup of tea. Maybe it’s about … the hedge!’ she adds hurriedly, as Mr Evans starts shaking his fist at Magnus.
‘Do you get that upset about a hedge?’ I say uncertainly.
The conversation is getting louder and the snippets are bigger.
‘…take a sledgehammer myself … evil devils need punishing …’
‘Very well.’ Magnus looks deathly as he comes hurrying over the grass to us. ‘Mrs Brandon, a small matter has arisen, involving the bedrooms of your property. According to this neighbour, several of them have been … appropriated from his property.’
‘What?’ I stare at him blankly.
‘He believes that someone has knocked through the adjoining wall and … stolen his bedrooms. Three of them, to be precise.’
Suze gasps. ‘I thought it looked too big!’
‘But you told us it had eight bedrooms! It was on the house details!’
‘Indeed.’ Magnus is looking more and more uncomfortable. ‘We were informed by the developer that this was an eight-bedroomed house and we had no reason to dispute this—’
‘So he just bulldozed into next door’s upstairs and stole all the rooms and no one even checked?’ I stare at him incredulously.
Magnus looks even more worried.
‘I believe the developer obtained the proper permissions from the Council …’
‘How?’ Mr Evans looms up, clearly bored of waiting. ‘By forging documents and greasing palms, that’s how! I come back from the States and go upstairs for a kip and what do I find? Half my top floor missing! Blocked up! Someone’s come in and stolen my property!’
‘Why didn’t someone notice?’ says Suze robustly. ‘Wasn’t it a bit careless of you to let them do that?’
‘My father’s deaf and nearly blind!’ Mr Evans looks even more incensed. ‘His carers pop in and out, but what do they know? Preying on the vulnerable, that’s what it is.’ His face is almost purple and his yellowing eyes are so menacing I quail.
‘It’s not my fault! I didn’t do anything! I didn’t even know! And you can have your bedrooms back,’ I add rashly. ‘Or … we could buy them off you, maybe? It’s just, we’re pretty desperate. We’re living with my parents and we’ve got a two-year-old …’
I’m gazing desperately at Mr Evans, willing him to soften, but he looks even more axe-murderery than before.
‘I’m phoning my lawyer.’ He wheels around and stalks back to the house.
‘What does this mean?’ I demand. ‘What happens next?�
��
Magnus can’t even look me in the eye.
‘I’m afraid this will be complicated. We’ll have to consult the deeds, take legal advice, the house may have to be put back the way it was, or perhaps Mr Evans will come to an arrangement … I think you will be able to sue the vendor successfully and indeed, there may be a fraud prosecution …’
I’m staring at him in growing dismay. I don’t care about a fraud prosecution. I want a house.
‘So we won’t be able to exchange next week?’
‘The whole deal is off for now, I’m afraid.’
‘But we need a house!’ I wail. ‘This is our fifth house!’
‘I’m sorry.’ Magnus takes out his phone. ‘Please excuse me, I need to alert our legal team.’
As he walks away, I look at Suze. For a moment, neither of us speaks.
‘I don’t believe it,’ I say at last. ‘Are we jinxed?’
‘It’ll all work out,’ says Suze hopefully. ‘Everyone will just sue each other and you’ll get the house in the end. And on the plus side, if you do have to stay with your mum a bit longer, think how thrilled she’ll be.’
‘She won’t!’ I say in desperation. ‘She’ll be livid! Suze, she doesn’t have empty-nest syndrome after all. We got it all wrong.’
‘What?’ Suze looks shocked. ‘But I thought she was going to really miss you and get suicidal.’
‘It was all an act! She can’t wait for us to go! The whole neighbourhood’s waiting.’ I clutch my head in despair. ‘What am I going to do?’
There’s silence as we both look round the wintry garden.
Maybe we could be squatters, I find myself thinking. Or set up a big tent in the garden and hope no one notices us. We could be alternative-lifestyle people living in our yurt. I could call myself Rainbow and Luke could be Wolf and Minnie could be Runs-On-Grass-In-Mary-Janes.
‘So what are you going to do?’ Suze breaks me out of a fantasy where we’re sitting by a campfire and Luke is chopping wood in old leather trousers with ‘Wolf’ tattooed on his knuckles.
‘Dunno,’ I say despairingly. ‘I’ll just have to think of something.’
As I get back home that day, I find Mum and Minnie in the kitchen, both in aprons, icing cupcakes. (Mum got the icing set at the pound shop. And the cakes.) They’re so engrossed and happy that for a moment they don’t see me – and with no warning, I have the weirdest flashback to Elinor, standing in that dressing room, looking old and sad and lonely and asking if she could see her grandchild.
She hasn’t even seen Minnie since she was in her cradle. She’s missed so much of Minnie’s life already. Which I know is her own fault, and I know she’s a bitch. But even so …
Oh God. I feel so torn. Should I let Minnie get to know her? Not that I could see Elinor icing cupcakes exactly. But they could do something together. Look through the Chanel catalogue, maybe.
Minnie’s concentrating so hard on putting multi-coloured sprinkles on to her cakes, I don’t want to disturb her. Her face is pink with effort and her little nose is screwed up and there are sprinkles stuck to her cheek with butter icing. As I watch her, my heart feels all crunchy. I could stand here watching her for ever, carefully shaking her little pot. Then suddenly she sees me and her face lights up.
‘Mummy! Spinkles!’ She holds out the pot of sprinkles proudly.
‘Well done, Minnie! Look at all your lovely cupcakes!’ I swoop down and give her a kiss. Her face is dusted in icing sugar – in fact, there seems to be a thin layer of icing sugar over pretty much everything in the kitchen.
‘Eat.’ Now Minnie is hopefully offering me a cupcake. ‘Eat spinkles.’ She starts cramming it into my mouth.
‘Yum!’ I can’t help laughing as crumbs fall down my chin. ‘Mmm.’
‘So, Becky!’ Mum looks up from her piping bag. ‘How was the house?’
‘Oh!’ I come to. ‘Great.’
Which is kind of true. It was great, apart from the fact that half of it is stolen.
‘And you’re still all set to move in?’
‘Well.’ I rub my nose, and sprinkles fall on the floor. ‘There might be a tiny delay …’
‘Delay?’ Mum sounds immediately tense. ‘What kind of delay?’
‘I’m not sure yet.’ I backtrack hastily. ‘It may be nothing.’
I watch Mum warily. Her shoulders have stiffened. That’s not a good sign.
‘Well, of course, if there was a delay,’ she says at last, ‘you’d stay on here. We wouldn’t dream of anything else.’
Oh God. She sounds so noble and self-sacrificing. I can’t bear it.
‘I’m sure it won’t come to that!’ I say quickly. ‘Although if it did … we could always … rent?’ I hardly dare say the word –and sure enough, she snaps on it like a shark scenting blood.
‘Rent? You’re not renting, Becky. It’s just throwing money away!’
Mum’s pathologically opposed to renting. Every time I’ve tried to suggest that Luke and I rent, she’s behaved as though we’re deliberately paying money to a landlord to spite her. And when I say, ‘Loads of people in Europe rent,’ she just sniffs and says, ‘Europe!’
‘Becky, is there a problem?’ Mum stops icing and looks at me properly. ‘Are you moving out or not?’
I can’t tell her the truth. We’re just going to have to move out. Somehow.
‘Of course we’re moving out!’ I say brightly. ‘Of course we are! I just said there might be a delay. But there probably won’t. We’ll be gone in three weeks.’ And I hurry out of the kitchen before she can ask anything else.
OK. So I have three weeks to sort out the house situation. Or find another solution. Or buy a yurt.
God, yurts are expensive. I’ve just looked them up online. Thousands of pounds, just for a bit of tarpaulin. So I’m not sure we’ll be doing that. I’m not sure what we’ll be doing.
But I won’t think about it right now, because I’m about to do my first bit of bartering. Mum and Dad are out, and Luke’s got a business dinner, and Minnie’s in bed, so the way is clear. I’m quite excited! Here begins a whole new way of life. Zero-consumption, green, ethical bartering in the local community. The way life should be. I’ll probably never go shopping again. People will call me The Girl Who Never Goes Shopping.
My first barterer, called Nicole Taylor, is coming round at seven o’clock with a marquee, and I’m giving her two Marc Jacobs bags in return, which I think is a fair swap, especially as I never use them any more. I’ve wrapped them up in tissue paper and put them in the original packaging, and even thrown in a Marc Jacobs keyring to be generous. The only hitch I can foresee is that it might be hard getting the marquee into the garage if it’s really massive. But I’m sure I’ll manage somehow.
Then I’ve got a fire-eater called Daryl, who’s swapping his services for a Luella clutch (which seems a bit weird, but maybe he wants it for his girlfriend or something). And a juggler, who’s getting a pair of Gina sandals. And some woman who cooks canapés who’s going to swap them for a Missoni coat. (I’ll be quite sorry to see that go, but the Banana Republic one I put up originally didn’t get a single offer.)
The one I’m most excited about is the fire-eater. He said he’d do a demonstration and everything. I wonder if he’s going to come along in a spangly costume! The doorbell rings and I feel a flurry of excitement as I hurry to the front door. This must be the marquee!
‘Hello!’ I fling the door open, half-expecting to see a great big wedding-style marquee, fully erected on the front lawn and all lit up.
‘Hiya.’ A thin girl looks at me sidelong from the front step. She’s only about sixteen, with lank hair hanging either side of a pale face, and she doesn’t seem to have a marquee with her, unless it’s folded up very small.
‘Are you Nicole?’ I say uncertainly.
‘Yeah.’ She nods and I get a waft of spearmint gum.
‘Have you come to barter a marquee for two Marc Jacobs bags?’
There’s a long
pause, as though she’s mulling this over.
‘Can I see the bags?’ she says.
This isn’t going quite as I expected.
‘Well, can I see the marquee?’ I counter. ‘How big is it? Could I get two hundred people in it? Is it stripy?’
There’s another long pause.
‘My dad owns a marquee company,’ she says at last. ‘I can get you one, I swear.’
She can get me one? What kind of rubbishy bartering is this?
‘You were supposed to be bringing it with you!’ I say indignantly.
‘Yeah, well, I couldn’t, could I?’ she says sulkily. ‘But I’ll get you one. When d’you need it? Are those the bags?’ Her eyes have fallen greedily on the Marc Jacobs carriers by my feet.
‘Yes,’ I say reluctantly.
‘Can I have a look?’
‘I suppose so.’
She unwraps the first – a grey tote – and gasps, her whole face lighting up. I can’t help feeling a pang of empathy. I can tell she’s a fellow handbag-lover.
‘God, I love this. I have to have it.’ She’s already got it on her shoulder and is twisting it this way and that. ‘Where’s the other one?’
‘Look, you can only have them if you get me a marquee—’
‘Hey, Daryl.’ Nicole lifts a hand at another lank teenager who’s coming into the drive. This one’s a boy in skinny jeans with dyed black hair and a rucksack on his back.
Is this the fire-eater?
‘Do you know him?’ I say a bit disbelievingly.
‘We’re at sixth-form college together, doing fashion studies.’ Nicole chews her gum. ‘’Swhere we saw your ads online.’
‘Hi.’ Daryl shuffles up and raises a limp hand in a kind of greeting. ‘I’m Daryl.’
‘You’re really a fire-eater?’ I look at him dubiously. I was picturing someone more macho, with a permatan and gleaming teeth and a sequinned jockstrap. But then, I shouldn’t judge. Maybe this Daryl grew up in the circus or something.
‘Yeah.’ He nods several times, his eyes twitching.
‘And you want my Luella clutch in exchange?’
‘I collect Luella pieces.’ He nods fervently. ‘Love Luella.’