‘You’ve been out already?’
Ignoring this, Sylvia said, ‘So you need something hot inside you.’
‘I can’t.’
‘You’ll be hungry mid-morning, and end up buying a muffin.’
‘And?’
‘And—’ Sylvia faltered. ‘That’s no way to eat.’
‘That wasn’t what you were going to say.’
‘What was I going to say?’ Sylvia pulled herself up onto the other stool.
‘I don’t know—something about muffins and getting fat.’ Vicky paused. ‘You think I’m getting fat?’
‘I think you should eat your porridge—you need to eat properly…out all the time…takeaway pizza.’ She paused. ‘There’s no balance.’
‘Are we still talking about food here?’
‘What else would we be talking about?’ Sylvia started to eat. ‘It just occurred to me…’
‘What?’
‘That your jeans haven’t been through the wash much recently.’
‘So?’
‘So?’
‘So, I don’t like wearing jeans all the time and anyway we’re not even allowed to wear them to school.’
Sylvia nodded slowly. ‘Well, we all need to be careful.’
‘I don’t believe this. You’ve started already and it isn’t even eight o’clock.’
‘You’re the one who won’t eat their porridge,’ Sylvia observed.
‘I was diagnosed bulimic less than two years ago and you’re telling me I’m fat? I mean, I’m like no therapist or anything, but I’d say that’s dangerously counter productive.’
‘Is that a threat?’ Sylvia asked. ‘As I recall, you had symptoms of mild bulimia—that’s not the same as being diagnosed bulimic. It was to do with the depression and the binge eating and you’re over that now.’
‘Yeah—over that; all done and dusted with that one.’
‘Are you trying to initiate a conversation about depression, Vicky? Is this a cry for help?’
‘A cry for help? If I’d gone down that road I’d have fucking lost my voice by now.’
‘Are you trying to tell me you’re depressed again?’
‘I love the way you stress the “again”; like, here we go again, here’s Vicky getting all boring and time-consuming again.’
‘So are you?’
‘What? Still boring?’
‘Depressed—’
‘Noooo!’ Vicky shouted.
Sylvia waited. ‘Your porridge is getting cold.’
She watched as her daughter picked up the spoon and shoved in mouthful after mouthful, until the bowl was empty. ‘You want to watch you don’t get indigestion.’
Vicky stared at her, her mouth full.
‘I just need to know you’re on top of things. This is an important year for you. I know you’re hearing it from your teachers, but you need to hear it from me as well—and dad.’
‘Dad doesn’t even know what year it is—and you never made O Levels let alone A Levels. So what are you talking about?’
Sylvia resisted the instinctive urge to take a swipe at her daughter’s face—primarily out of respect for the fact that Vicky had actually made the effort to put make-up on this morning. She used to hit Vicky a lot as a child and was of the opinion that a ‘tap’ never hurt anyone. Vicky had—possibly—been tapped more than Tom, but then Vicky had been a difficult child, even as a toddler. ‘Curdled,’ her mother used to call it. Some children just came out like that—curdled. So, ignoring the reference to her lack of higher education, Sylvia said, ‘I just want you to know that your dad and me are behind you at this point, which means you’re free to focus on the opportunities ahead.’
‘Oh my God, you’re talking in platitudes. Did you take an evening class or something and not tell us?’
Sylvia drew herself slowly off the bar stool and Vicky instinctively flinched as she took a step towards her.
‘Why are you so angry?’
‘Because I’m sick of you talking to me like I’ve screwed up already when I haven’t even taken my mocks yet.’ Vicky stopped. ‘This is about me not getting Head Girl, isn’t it? You think me not getting Head Girl was because I’m not on top of things.’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘God, it must have been awful for you having to break the news to all your friends—about me not getting Head Girl. How humiliating for you.’
‘So I thought you’d get it—what’s wrong with that?’
‘I keep telling you but you won’t listen—there’s no way anybody other than Grace was going to be Head Girl this year.’
‘So it was a foregone conclusion?’
‘Pretty much.’
‘But I thought you said people voted?’
‘People did—’
‘You’re making it sound like the whole thing was rigged,’ Sylvia said, interested.
Vicky, who’d been staring strangely at her, got down from the stool, went over to the dishwasher, opened it—saw it was full—then shut it again.
She turned round, arms folded. ‘Have you had something corrective done?’
Sylvia, startled, said, ‘What?’
‘Your face—it looks like somebody just ironed it.’
‘A good night’s sleep.’
‘Ruth reckons you’ve had corrective surgery.’
‘When did she say that?’
Vicky shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Some time. I asked Tom and he said “no”, but now I’m not sure. There’s definitely something different going on with your face.’
Sylvia touched her face with her fingertips then held protectively onto her throat under her daughter’s gaze.
‘Have you been getting Botox?’
Before Sylvia had time to defend herself, Vicky’s face contracted suddenly.
‘What is it?’
‘Sick—I’m going to be sick.’
She ran past the breakfast bar and upstairs.
Sylvia waited.
The sound of retching—distant—came from upstairs.
She went to the foot of the stairs. ‘Vicky? Are you okay?’
No response.
‘There’s air freshener up there—not the one with the orange lid that smells like old men—I’m writing to Airwick about that one. There’s a can with a blue lid—Topaz Haze or something?—use that.’
Still no response.
‘And you might want to have a shower while you’re up there. Your hair looks like it could do with a wash. I know you already did your make-up, but—’ She paused; her throat felt hoarse. The sound of banging came from upstairs. ‘Vicky?’
She