‘… Marianne?’ he eventually stuttered, his face growing almost as pale as my white one.
‘Yes,’ I answered defiantly, painted face held high.
‘What are you … doing here?’
‘What does it look like I’m …’ I swallowed down the ‘f’ word. ‘What does it look like I’m doing here? Entertaining your daughter and her friends is what I’m doing here,’ I hissed, my voice livid.
‘Right, well nice to see you again,’ he lied, looking longingly towards the exit.
‘You utter pig,’ I muttered.
‘Come on Maisie,’ Simon pleaded. ‘We’re going darling, now.’
‘Where’s Mummy?’
‘Waiting in the car,’ he whispered urgently, as if whispering would cancel out the reference to the cuckolded mother of his child. ‘Go and get your party bag from Jack’s mum.’
‘So, Mummy’s in the car is she?’ I blustered, once Maisie had charged off in search of more treats she didn’t deserve. ‘Maybe I should come outside and introduce myself to Mummy?’
Simon looked terrified.
‘What, you don’t like the idea of that? Why’s that then?’
‘Just stay away from my family,’ he sneered icily, his face contorted in rage.
‘Maybe I’d be doing her a favour?’ I added, enjoying watching him squirm, though admittedly my enjoyment would have been even greater had I been wearing something more standard.
‘Look, you crazy bitch, just keep away all right?’ was his charming riposte, after which he gulped, looked around and then pegged it.
It was awful, and as I stood there trying not to cry, feeling hurt and stung, not only by Simon’s actions but by his venomous tone of voice, I felt truly gutted and absolutely humiliated.
Half an hour later and it was a rather pathetic clown that left that party, worn out, upset and mortified. As soon as I’d been paid, I left almost as hastily as Simon and Maisie had, and only once back in the safe environs of Tina did I let the true extent of my horror catch up with me. The shame of it all. Then I caught a glimpse of my clown face in the rear view mirror and despite everything had to swallow back a laugh that was in grave danger of turning into a sob.
It wasn’t meant to be like this.
As I put the key in the lock, I felt fed up and dejected. My mood wasn’t improved when Mum’s voice immediately hollered through from the kitchen. ‘That you Marianne?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well hurry up and have your shower because I could do with a hand in here.’
The day was feeling more like an endurance test by the minute. I felt dreadful and the last thing I felt like doing was helping Mum get ready for a state visit from Hayley, Gary and his bloody family. Especially since I could hear that Pete was upstairs, blasting Elvis as usual. I know he’s younger. I know I should have a place of my own. I know I need to pull my weight but I also know Mum will never expect anything of Pete simply because he’s male. She’s raising a Neanderthal. My mum’s a sexist.
I heaved myself upstairs and locked myself in the bathroom, where I began the process of changing from a clown back into a normal person. As I stood under the shower, the pan-stick make-up dripped off my face and disappeared down the plughole, along with any hopes I might have been harbouring about Simon. What a bastard. Thank god nothing had happened. At least now I could still tell Andy I’d waited for him. The thought of Andy made me instantly nostalgic – and guilty – and as the water pounded my head, I wished more than anything I was miles away from here, on a beautiful beach with him. Preferably lying in a hammock eating a banana pancake at my favourite time of day, five o’clock. Although that’s only my favourite time of day when I’m on the beach, not when I’m at home. That is to say I don’t like it when everybody’s pouring out of work after a gruelling day, battling home in heavy traffic, or on the bus without a seat, head squashed into someone’s armpit. But five o’clock on the beach is another story altogether. It’s when the sun’s starting to dip and its rays are losing their intensity, but it’s still so beautifully warm that you can feel yourself drifting off into a peaceful, dreamy slumber.
‘These vol-au-vents aren’t going to stuff themselves!’ Mum shrieked up the stairs, putting paid to any more of that whimsy.
Ten minutes later I’d shoved on some black leggings and was just about to pull an oversized sweater over them when suddenly I pictured Hayley’s look of outraged disapproval. Off they slid again and I selected instead a dress and belt that I didn’t think even she could take umbrage with. I dragged a brush quickly through my hair, another reason to love having short hair, along with the fact I no longer feel like a poor man’s Hayley. We both used to have long, straight, blonde hair, only hers was that bit blonder and straighter. Since going for the chop, I feel more like I have my own identity and less like people are constantly comparing us when we’re together.
I hoped my outfit would keep her happy today. Not because I gave a shit whether she approved or not, but because I couldn’t be bothered with any more scenes. Still rattled by my confrontation with Simon, I slapped on a bit of mascara and some blusher and then went downstairs to help stuff Mum’s ruddy vol-au-vents.
‘You need to give your eyebrows a rub,’ said Mum, who was in full flap mode. ‘You’ve still got black make-up on them. Other than that though, you look nice.’
I was surprised. I don’t usually get many compliments from Mum – they’re usually all reserved for Hayley or Pete and, on occasion, Martin – and when I had my hair cut short she acted as if I’d mutilated myself. Today Mum was wearing too tight white capri pants with perspex wedges and a v-neck fuchsia sweater that matched her lipstick. Her ash blonde hair was looking bouncy. She’d obviously tonged it to within an inch of its life and her eyes and cheeks were plastered with shimmery make-up. She’s good looking my mum, attractive for her fifty-one years, though her sweet tooth contributes towards what she calls her muffin top. Last year, Martin bought her an exercise bike, which she keeps in the bedroom and goes on religiously every day. She likes to watch Loose Women while she’s on it and has been known to devour an entire packet of biscuits as she pedals.
As I rubbed my eyebrows viciously with a bit of kitchen towel she rushed around the kitchen, making sure it looked pristine. ‘When Wendy and Derek get here, I want to fill them in about Sing For Britain,’ she said. ‘You know how much your sister looks up to Wendy, so if we can just get her on side.’
I sighed.
‘The forms have come through, so now I’ve got all the dates for the London auditions. You will back me up about what a good idea it is, won’t you?’
‘I’m not backing you up Mum,’ I said wearily. Having heard about nothing else for months the subject was starting to wear rather thin, especially since she wouldn’t listen to reason. Going on the show would spell disaster for my sister. Sad but true I’m afraid. I flicked the kettle on for a much-needed cup of tea. ‘I’ve told you already Mum, I don’t think Hayley should audition. The judges will crucify her. She can’t sing.’
Mum narrowed her eyes at me, outraged. ‘Marianne Baker, how can you say such a thing? Don’t be jealous, it’s not attractive. Just because you have no idea what you’re doing with your life.’
I despaired. Ultimately it was pointless trying to say anything because