Finding Audrey

OK, so here’s a life lesson. Don’t try fixing a birthday cake with ketchup. Tipp-Ex would have been better.

As Dad brought out the cake, Mum’s jaw dropped. And not in a good way. I mean, if you take a white iced cake and pipe all over it with ketchup, it basically looks like the Texas Chainsaw Massacre.

We all launched into ‘Happy Birthday’ extra loudly, and as soon as we’d finished and Mum had blown out her (one) candle, Dad said, ‘Great! So let me take that away and cut it up—’

‘Wait.’ Mum put a hand on his. ‘What IS that? That’s not ketchup?’

‘It’s a Heston Blumenthal recipe,’ said Dad without blinking. ‘Experimental.’

‘Right.’ Mum still looked puzzled. ‘But isn’t that . . .?’ Before anyone could stop her, she was scraping the ketchup off with a napkin. ‘I thought so! There’s a message underneath.’

‘It’s nothing,’ said Dad quickly.

‘But it’s piped in icing!’ She wiped away the last blobs of ketchup and we all stared in silence at the smeared red-and-white cake.

‘Chris,’ said Mum at last in an odd voice. ‘Why does it say thirty-nine?’

‘It doesn’t! It says thirty-eight. Look.’ Dad’s hand traced over the vestiges of the ketchup. ‘That’s an eight.’

‘Nine.’ Felix pointed confidently at the cake. ‘Number nine.’

‘It’s an eight, Felix!’ said Dad sharply. ‘Eight!’

I could see Felix staring at the cake in puzzlement and felt a twinge of sympathy for him. How’s he supposed to learn anything with nutso parents like ours?

‘It’s a nine, Felix,’ I whispered in his ear. ‘Daddy’s joking.’

‘Do you think I’m thirty-nine?’ Mum looked up at Dad. ‘Do I look thirty-nine? Is that what you think?’ She squashed her face between her hands and glared at him. ‘Is this a thirty-nine-year-old face? Is that what you’re telling me?’

I think Dad should have just junked the cake.

So this evening my dad is taking my mum on a date for her birthday – as you can tell from the clouds of perfume that suddenly descend onto the landing. Mum isn’t exactly subtle when she goes out. As she always tells us, her social life is practically non-existent since having three kids, so when she goes out, she makes up for it with perfume, eye-liner, hairspray and heels. As she totters down the stairs, I can see a little fake-tan blotch on the back of her arm, but I won’t tell her. Not on her birthday.

‘Will you be all right, darling?’ She puts her hands on my shoulders and looks anxiously at me. ‘You’ve got our numbers. Any problems, you tell Frank to call, straight away.’

Mum knows I’m not brilliant with phones. Which is why Frank is officially on baby-sitting duty, not me.

‘I’ll be fine, Mum.’

‘Of course you will,’ she says, but doesn’t let go of my shoulders. ‘Sweetheart, take it easy. Have an early night.’

‘I will,’ I promise.

‘And Frank . . .’ She looks up as he lopes into the hall. ‘You will be doing homework only. Because I am taking this with me.’

She brandishes a power cable triumphantly, and Frank gapes.

‘Did you—?’

‘Unplug your computer? Yes, young man, I did. I don’t want that computer going on for a nano-second. If you finish your homework you can watch TV or read a book. Read some Dickens!’

‘Dickens,’ echoes Frank in disparaging tones.

‘Yes, Dickens! Why not? When I was your age—’

‘I know.’ Frank cuts her off. ‘You went to see Dickens live. And he rocked.’

Mum rolls her eyes. ‘Very funny.’

‘So! Where’s the birthday girl?’ Dad comes hurrying down the stairs, bringing with him a cloud of aftershave. What is it with parents and too much perfume? ‘Now, are you guys OK?’ He looks at me and Frank. ‘Because we’ll only be round the corner.’

My parents cannot leave the house. Mum has to do a final check on Felix, and Dad remembers he left the sprinkler on in the garden and then Mum wants to make sure that her Sky+ is recording EastEnders.

Eventually we chivvy them out and look at each other.

‘They’ll be back in, like, an hour,’ predicts Frank, and heads off to the playroom. I follow him because I don’t have much else to do, and I might read his new Scott Pilgrim. He goes to his computer station, rummages around in his school bag and produces a power cable. Then he plugs in his computer, logs in, and up pops a game of LOC.

‘Did you know Mum was going to take your cable?’ I ask, impressed.

‘She’s done it before. I’ve got, like, five of them.’ His eyes glaze over as he starts playing and I know there’s no point talking to him. I look around for the Scott Pilgrim, find it under an empty jumbo Hula Hoops packet, and curl up to read it on the sofa.

It seems about a moment later that I glance up to see Mum at the door, standing there in her heels. How did that happen?

‘Mum.’ I blink, disoriented. ‘Aren’t you out?’

‘I came back for my phone.’ Her tone is sweet and ominous. ‘Frank? What are you doing?’

Oh God. Frank. Frank! My head whips round in apprehension. Frank is still moving his mouse around the mat, his earphones on.

‘Frank!’ Mum barks, and he looks up.

‘Yes?’

‘What are you doing?’ says Mum, in the same sweet, ominous tone.

‘Language lab,’ says Frank, without missing a beat.

‘Language . . . what?’ Mum seems wrong-footed.

‘French homework. It’s a vocab-testing program. I had to find an old power cable to do it. I thought you wouldn’t mind.’

He points at the monitor, and I see armoire floating around the screen in a big red font, followed by wardrobe in blue.

Wow. He must have moved quickly to get that up on screen.

Actually, playing LOC does improve your reaction times. I mean, that’s a real thing.

‘You’ve been doing language lab all this time?’ Mum glances at me with narrowed eyes, and I look away. I am not getting into this.

‘I’ve been reading Scott Pilgrim,’ I say truthfully.

Mum’s focus returns to Frank. ‘Frank, are you lying to me?’

‘Lying?’ Frank looks hurt.

‘Don’t give me that! Are you telling me, hand on heart, that you’ve been doing your homework and nothing else?’

Frank just stares at her for a moment. Then he shakes his head, his face sad. ‘You adults. You think teenagers lie. You assume teenagers lie. That’s the starting point. It’s infinitely depressing.’

‘I don’t assume anything—’ begins Mum, but he cuts her off.

‘You do! All of you make these easy, obvious, lazy assumptions that anyone under the age of eighteen is a pathological, dishonest sub-human with no integrity. But we’re people, just like you, and you don’t seem to get that!’ His face is suddenly passionate. ‘Mum, can’t you just for once believe that your son might be doing the right thing? Can’t you just for once give me an ounce of credit? But, look, if you want me to disconnect the computer and not do my French homework, that’s fine. I’ll tell the teacher tomorrow.’

Mum looks thrown by Frank’s little speech. In fact, she looks quite chastened.

‘I didn’t say you were lying! I just . . . Look, if you’re doing French homework, that’s fine. Carry on. I’ll see you later.’

She tip-taps down the hall, and a few moments later we hear the front door close.

‘You’re sick,’ I say, without looking up from my book.

Frank doesn’t reply. He’s already engrossed in his game again. I turn a page and listen to Frank’s mutterings, and wonder whether to go and make a hot chocolate, when suddenly there’s the most almighty banging on the window, from outside.

‘FRAAAAAAANK!!!’

I jump a mile, and feel myself start to hyperventilate. Mum is at the window, staring in, her face like some monstrous demon. I mean, I’ve never seen her look so furious. ‘Chris!’ she’s yelling now. ‘COME HERE! I’VE CAUGHT HIM RED-HANDED!’

How is she even up there? The windows of the playroom are, like, nearly two metres off the ground outside.

I glance at Frank, and he looks genuinely a bit freaked out. He’s closed down LOC, but she saw it. I mean, there’s no way she didn’t see it.

‘You’re for it,’ I say.

‘Shit.’ Frank scowls. ‘I can’t believe she would spy on me.’

‘Chris!’ Mum is yelling. ‘Help! I—Arrrgh!’

Her face disappears from the window and there’s a loud crunch.

Oh my God. What just happened? I leap to my feet and run to the back door. The window of the playroom backs onto the garden, and as I head out, I can’t see Mum anywhere. All I can see is Felix’s playhouse, pulled up to the playroom window. But the roof seems to have broken, and—

No.

No way.

Mum’s feet are poking out of it, still in her high heels.

Frank arrives on the back step, and sees what I’m looking at. He claps a hand over his mouth and I nudge him.

‘Shut up! She might be hurt! Mum, are you OK?’ I call, hurrying over to the playhouse.

‘Anne!’ Dad has arrived on the scene. ‘What happened? What were you doing?’

‘I was looking in the window,’ comes Mum’s stifled voice. ‘Get me out of here. I’m totally wedged in.’

‘I thought standing on the playhouse was a bad example to Felix, Mum,’ says Frank blandly, and I hear a furious gasp.

‘You little . . .’ It’s probably a good thing Mum’s voice is muffled at that point.

It takes me, Dad and Frank together to haul Mum out of the playhouse, and I can’t say it improves her mood. As she brushes her hair down, she’s shaking with fury.

‘Right, young man,’ she says to Frank, who is staring sullenly at the floor. ‘Well, you have cooked your goose. You are hereby banned from playing any computer games for . . . what do you think, Chris?’

‘One day,’ says Dad firmly, just as Mum says, ‘Two months.’

‘Chris!’ says Mum. ‘One day?’

‘Well, I don’t know!’ says Dad defensively. ‘Don’t put me on the spot.’

Mum and Dad go off in a huddle and start whispering, while Frank and I wait awkwardly. I could go inside, I suppose, but I want to see how it all works out.

This is pretty lame, though, having to stand here while they whisper things like ‘Really get the message across’ and ‘Make it count’.

When I’m a parent I’m so going to work out the punishment first.

‘OK.’ Dad eventually emerges from the huddle. ‘Ten days. No computer, no phone, nothing.’

‘Ten days?’ Frank gives Dad one of his death-ray, please-die-now stares. ‘That is so out of proportion.’

‘It is not.’ Mum holds out her hand. ‘Phone please.’

‘But what about my team-mates? I can’t just let them down. All that bullshit you give me about “team spirit” and “all pull together”? And now I just let the side down?’

‘What team-mates?’ Mum looks confused. ‘Is this the cross-country team?’

‘My LOC team-mates!’ Frank expostulates. ‘We’re practising for the tournament, like I’ve told you a billion times.’

‘A computer game tournament?’ says Mum, in supreme disdain.

‘The international LOC tournament! The prize pot is six million dollars! That’s why Linus comes round the whole time! What do I say to him?’

‘Tell him you’re busy,’ says Mum crisply. ‘In fact, I’d rather Linus didn’t come round any more. I think you should find some friends with wider interests. And he upset Audrey.’

‘Linus is my friend!’ Frank looks like he wants to explode. ‘You can’t ban my frigging friends!’

OK, ‘frigging’ was a mistake. I can see Mum drawing herself up like a cobra ready to strike.

‘Please don’t swear, Frank,’ she says icily. ‘And yes I can. This is my house. I control who comes in and out of it. You know Audrey had an attack when he was here?’

‘She won’t have any more attacks,’ says Frank at once. ‘Audrey’s getting used to Linus, aren’t you, Audrey?’

‘He’s OK,’ I say weakly.

‘We’ll discuss it,’ says Mum, giving Frank another icy stare. ‘For now, can I trust you to carry on with your homework tonight, and not produce another power cable, or do I have to cancel my birthday dinner – the one Dad and I have been looking forward to all month and which has already been half ruined?’ She looks at her legs. ‘My tights are totally ruined.’

When she puts it like that, you do feel guilty. I mean, I feel bad and I didn’t even do anything, so I expect Frank feels worse. Although you never know, with Frank.

‘Sorry,’ he mutters at last, and we watch silently as Mum and Dad head back round the house to the drive. We hear the car doors bang and they’re off again.

‘Ten days,’ says Frank at last, closing his eyes.

‘It could have been two months,’ I say, trying to make him feel better, and immediately realizing that this is a really lame and annoying thing to say. ‘I mean . . . sorry. That sucks.’

‘Yeah.’

We go inside and I head towards the kitchen. I’m putting the kettle on for hot chocolate when I hear Frank at the door: ‘Listen, Audrey, you have to get used to Linus.’

‘Oh.’ I feel a weird little flip inside. It’s that name. Linus. It does that to me.

‘He needs to come round here. He needs a space to practise.’

‘But Mum won’t let you play.’

‘Only for ten days.’ He waves his hand impatiently. ‘Then we need to get some serious hours in. It’s the qualifiers coming up.’

‘Right.’ I spoon hot chocolate powder into my mug.

‘So you can’t freak out when you see him. I mean, not “freak out”,’ he amends at my expression. ‘Have an attack. Whatever. I know it’s really serious. I know it’s an illness, blah blah, I know all that.’

Frank was dragged along to a family therapy group thing a couple of times. Actually, he was really sweet at it. He said some nice things to me. And about me, and what happened, and—

Anyway.

‘The point is, Linus needs to come here, without Mum getting on my case,’ Frank is saying. ‘So you have to be able to look at him and not run away or whatever. OK?’

There’s a pause. I pour boiling water into my mug and watch the powder swirling round, turning from a dusty nothing into sublime hot chocolate in seconds. All it takes is one extra element to transform it. I think about that every time I make hot chocolate.

Which is not a good thing, by the way. I think too much. Waaaay too much. Everyone’s agreed on that.

‘Try, at any rate,’ Frank says. ‘Please?’

‘OK.’ I shrug, and take a sip of hot chocolate.