Happy Families Page 6

  It wasn’t long before Andy got used to being rich and having other people around him who did what he wanted. But every now and then, something would remind him that life hadn’t always been like this. It might be an article about kids and delinquency rates. Or it might be a discussion on Radio Four about teenage illiteracy.

  On the Monday after his wife’s birthday lunch, it was the front page of his newspaper which had grabbed his attention. Below a huge article reporting the lavish funeral of a very famous elderly photographer was another piece. Smaller. Far more important. GANG OF TEENAGERS SENT TO YOUNG OFFENDERS FOR TERRORISING SHOPKEEPER, screamed the headline. Then it added: YOUNGEST ONLY 12!

  Andy, who was reading the paper in the back of his car, had felt like tapping the window between him and his driver and asking his driver to pull in because he felt sick. That kid could have been him! What kind of kids do this kind of thing? demanded the woman journalist who had written the article.

  ‘Kids whose parents don’t know how to be parents,’ Andy wanted to yell.

  By the time he got into the office, he was still upset. His secretary, a sensible woman in her fifties who was good at both her job and remembering birthdays, gave him a strange look. ‘Are you all right, Andy? You look upset.’

  Hastily, he gathered himself. ‘Just preoccupied, that’s all.’

  She still looked apprehensive. ‘There’s a Harry Screws here to see you. He’s in reception.’

  Screws’ was their main competitor in the area. Recently, to Andy’s disconcertion, some of their clients had defected. Now the head honcho had turned up in person, without an appointment. Bloody cheek. The kind of strategy Andy might have adopted in his position.

  ‘Do you want to see him?’ added his secretary.

  Did he want to see him? Bloody hell. Wasn’t this just what he’d been angling for?

  ‘Sure. We’ll take the Green Room.’

  ‘Don’t you need a bit of time to prepare?’

  Andy didn’t need to prepare. Instinctively, he knew what Harry Screws was going to offer. Funny really. If it hadn’t been for that article in the paper – not to mention Pamela’s little nephew, whose face still haunted him – he might have told this arrogant bastard where to get off. But now, he was more than ready to discuss the options.

  ‘Won’t you get bored?’ asked his secretary when he told her to organise the necessary paperwork without even consulting his financial adviser, who he knew would be dead against the deal. ‘No sum of money’, he could just hear George, his financial adviser, say, ‘is worth losing a job for. However large.’

  He shook his head. ‘I’ve worked hard, really hard over the years. And I’ve missed out on family life as a result.’ He stopped for a minute, thinking about his beautifully behaved girls. How lucky he was! Seeing Bobbie and her uncontrollable kids at the weekend, plus that ineffectual brother-in-law of his, had really brought that home. ‘This will buy me some time to be with them before they grow up and go away.’

  ‘That’s so sweet!’ His secretary made an ‘Ahhh’ sound. ‘You’re right! Families do need fathers. Did you see that piece in the paper? About the thugs who smashed the shop window? They were only twelve. Twelve! And did you read about their family backgrounds?’ She shook her head.

  Andy wasn’t able to say anything to that one. Instead, he just gave her a curt nod and went off to the next meeting that his secretary had already organised. The one where he was going to tell the rest of his colleagues that he had agreed to the sell-out. Everyone’s jobs would remain the same, apart from his own.

  Already, Andy could feel a buzz of excitement that he hadn’t felt for a very long time. Pamela would be thrilled! Not that she moaned about him never being there. She was far too supportive a wife to do that. But now, at last, he could go with her to those race meetings at Ascot. He could take her out for lunch. Be there for the girls. Go to all those school concerts he’d always missed before. Be at home in the afternoon. Starting from today!

  ‘It’s all right, thanks,’ Andy told his driver. ‘I’ll walk back.’ It normally took just under an hour by car to reach the green leafy suburbs that were now home. But he needed the fresh air! Had to breathe it in greedily; gulping down a freedom that he hadn’t realised he had needed so much until today.

  Peeling off his suit jacket, Andy threw it on the ground and jumped over it like a child. A dog walker gave him a strange look but Andy didn’t care. It was like leaving the home, all over again!

  *

  ‘You’ve sold the business?’ Pamela frowned at him. Pamela never frowned. It was, as she was constantly reminding the girls, a waste of all those facial exercises which she had taught them to do, along with going to sleep on their backs so they didn’t get pillow marks.

  But now, standing in the hall with her tennis racquet after returning from the club (where the membership fees would have paid a small mortgage), a cluster of horizontal lines had gathered across that smooth skin just above her immaculately shaped eyebrows. A clear sign of disapproval even though Andy had convinced himself she would be thrilled.

  ‘You’re just going to stay at home?’

  His wife’s deep blue eyes, which had wowed millions into buying silk underwear and inspired many a man both in bed and out of it, locked with his. Her lack of enthusiasm was all too clear.

  Nervously, Andy’s hand went to loosen his tie before remembering that he had whipped it off and thrown it in the hedgerow in those moments of utter abandonment as he had walked jauntily home. It had been a pink silk tie which Pamela’s mother had given him last Christmas. He cared little for either the present or the donor. ‘Only for a few months. Until I’ve decided what I really want to do.’

  ‘But I thought you were doing what you wanted to do!’

  Did his wife really know him? Or was it because he’d never given her the chance, guessing it had been too risky? She wouldn’t care for the real Andy. Might not even want to be married to him. ‘I just feel …’ he began hesitantly, ‘that there has to be more to life than working hard all day, every day. I want to be able to relax a bit.’

  Like you, he almost added.

  Pamela was sitting down on the bottom step of their staircase now, displaying her long legs under her short tennis skirt; the type which were really shorts. Her trainers would be sitting neatly in the downstairs closet. Pamela never, ever allowed anyone to go through the front door without taking their shoes off. It had taken her ages to get rid of Jack’s sock prints on the white carpet after the lunch party!

  ‘But what will you do all day?’ This time, her voice had more of an accepting air to it, albeit an irritated one.

  He seized on that with relief. ‘Be with you! Spend more time with the girls. Do something with that golf membership. Help the gardener.’

  ‘The gardener? John’s a professional. He doesn’t want any help. Besides, you don’t know anything about plants.’ She muttered something. It sounded like ‘Or teenagers’.

  Fair enough. He didn’t know much about teenagers because he’d been away so much. But that was going to change now. He was ready to learn!

  ‘I thought you’d be pleased,’ he said slowly, sitting down next to her on the soft wool carpet which Pamela had had hand-made by an Italian firm; the type that didn’t list their prices in their brochures. He reached out his hand for hers. There was a moment of hesitation and then she gave his a quick squeeze before retracting it.

  ‘I am.’ Her voice was small. Almost, if he didn’t know her better, a little scared. ‘It’s just that I’m used to my own company.’

  Then before he knew what was hitting him, she gave him a big hug. A hug that smelt of the expensive perfume he always bought her (at her request). A hug that was a welcome change from the cool Pamela. Recently, her moods had swung from tense to exuberant and, occasionally, something in between. It was an early menopause, she’d explained during her better moments. Women were so unpredictable! And nature really did seem to have it in for his wife of
late.

  ‘The girls and I have had to get used to managing on our own,’ she continued, showering the top of his head with little kisses. Wow! What he done to deserve such attention? ‘We’ve never complained about it because we knew you were doing the important bit. But I suppose the idea of you being here with us is going to take a bit of getting used to. That’s all.’

  She looked at him now with those beautiful china-blue eyes, expecting him to understand. And he did. Up to a point. Pamela had always been honest. That had been one of the conditions of their marriage. He’d made that clear at the start.

  ‘You’re wrong, you know,’ he started to say. ‘I don’t do the important bit. You do that. It’s called bringing up the children. And you do a great job.’

  Her eyes melted. ‘Oh Andy, you’re so sweet.’ Then she kissed him. Full on the mouth, which was something she hadn’t done for a while: usually he took the lead. And as she kissed him, Andy felt his body flooding with happiness. He had done the right thing in accepting that offer!

  ‘In fact,’ added Pamela, jumping to her feet, ‘this might have come at exactly the right time. Mummy rang this morning.’

  Andy’s happiness deflated as though someone had pierced it with a pin. Pamela’s mother was a very strong-willed widow who had loathed Andy at first sight. She was one of those people who always managed to turn the conversation round to herself, whatever the subject.

  Camilla was also a frightful snob. When they’d first met, she had quizzed him relentlessly about where he’d gone to school. Her mouth had narrowed when he’d told her about his parents dying in a crash and the aunt who was now dead. ‘She doesn’t believe me,’ Andy realised with terror. Even now, Andy expected Camilla to triumphantly present him with proof of his real past.

  ‘Is she coming to stay?’ he asked, trying to sound enthusiastic. Pamela adored her mother, from whom she inherited her honey-gold skin and beautiful blonde hair. The difference between them was that Camilla was a bitch who had pushed her daughter forward as a model (having always wanted to be one herself) and now seized every opportunity to bemoan the fact that her daughter had ‘given everything up’ to be a ‘housewife’. She didn’t need to add that in her view, all this was down to one person. Andy. Or, as she insisted on calling him, Andrew.

  Thank God she lived in Sussex and not round the corner.

  ‘No, darling.’ Pamela patted his shoulder comfortingly, much as one might pat a small dog: something that Andy had always yearned for but would never be able to have as his wife was allergic to pet hair. ‘Her arthritis is playing up again and her au pair has just walked out.’

  Hah! Camilla was one of a new breed of grannies who had au pairs to look after them. But as soon as they realised what a spoilt, demanding woman she was, they were off. Andy didn’t blame them. ‘She wants to know if I could go down. I told her it was impossible because I needed to be here for the girls.’ Then she gave his arm a little squeeze. ‘But if you’re going to be around, then maybe you could spare me for a few days.’

  ‘Well, yes but …’

  ‘Great!’ Pamela was already running up the stairs. ‘I’ll pack a bag and you can pick up the girls from school. Natasha will need to go straight to athletics club so you’ll need to wait there before collecting Melanie from extra French. She’ll want to drive you back – her instructor says it’s crucial for her to practise – so make sure you take the L plates.’

  Andy tried to take all this in. He’d suggested, years ago, that the girls went to a private school. Weren’t all state schools crap? Just look at his own early experiences. He might have come through all right but he was one of the lucky ones.

  But Pamela had been adamant that they went to Corrywood High, an ‘excellent’ state school that was just round the corner, where she had also volunteered to be on the PTA. She’d had enough of public school education herself, she told him. She wanted the girls to have a ‘normal’ life. The fact that a famous actress was also on the PTA had nothing to do with it.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ trilled Pamela as she flew back down the stairs, cheeks flushed and an unusually excited glint in her eye. ‘I’ll be back in time to run my parenting class next week.’ She gave him a kiss. Not one on the mouth this time but a quick brush on the cheek. ‘If you’re interested, take a peep at the leader manual. It’s in the den. And don’t forget to pay Mrs C. She’s changed her hours, by the way, so she’ll be in at nine tomorrow instead of eight to do a general clean-up. Bye, darling. I’ll keep my mobile on! But the battery’s a bit low so don’t worry if you can’t get hold of me.’

  Home alone! Andy heard his wife rev up her car, feeling a mixture of freedom and apprehension. He’d never, as far as he could remember, been in the house without anyone else at three o’clock in the afternoon. He ought to make use of it! Go and play squash, or just chill out on the sofa. Then again, from what Pamela had said, there wasn’t much time before the school run. Andy felt excitement racing through his chest. His daughters would be so pleased to see him!

  ‘What are you doing here, Dad?’ Natasha eyed his T-shirt with undisguised horror. What was wrong with the Grateful Dead? He’d forgotten he’d even possessed it but after Bobbie had gone, he had rifled through his drawers in holiday mode and put it on to remind himself that he really didn’t need to wear a suit any more. At least until he decided to get another job.

  ‘Mum’s gone to stay with Gran and I’ve got some time off work.’

  Natasha gave him a little push. ‘Don’t stand here. Not so close to the gates. Everyone will see you. God, Dad. You’re so embarrassing! Did you bring my athletics stuff?’

  Pamela hadn’t mentioned that. Or had she? There’d been quite a few ‘don’t forgets’ on her way out.

  ‘Fuck, Dad! I’m going to get thrown out of the team if I don’t have my kit. I’ve already got two strikes.’

  Fuck? He’d never heard the girls swear before.

  Natasha frowned at him. ‘I mean it, Dad. You’ll have to go back and get it.’

  What happened to the ‘please’? If his daughter didn’t look the same as usual with her blonde hair tied back in the regulation ponytail, he might have thought she was a changeling. His Natasha never spoke to him like this.

  ‘I can’t! We’ve got to pick up Melanie.’

  Natasha snorted. ‘She’s got detention again, which means she won’t be out for another hour.’

  Had he heard right? ‘Detention? Again?’

  His youngest daughter rolled her eyes. ‘I know. I did tell her. If you’re going to have a fag, do it when they’re all tied up in a staff meeting. Not at the back of class.’ Natasha put her hand to her mouth. ‘Whoops. I didn’t mean to say that.’

  Andy began to feel he was in a bad dream.

  ‘Mr Gooding?’

  Swivelling round, he found a tall, gawky young girl with a slightly harassed look on her face, a bouncy ponytail, metallic braces and a folder in her hands. ‘I’m Judith Davies.’

  Should he know her? ‘Are you in Melanie’s class?’

  Natasha let out a groan. ‘Dad!’

  The young girl smiled. ‘Actually, I‘m one of the English teachers well as being in charge of pastoral care. I don’t believe we met at the last parents’ evening. Would you mind giving this to your wife? It’s for the parenting course tonight.’

  ‘Tonight?’ Andy was confused. ‘My wife said it started next week.’

  ‘It was going to but we had to change the date at the last minute.’ The young girl looked worried. ‘We sent everyone an email.’

  When would people realise this wasn’t always a reliable method of communication? Still, he couldn’t help feeling for the girl. She was looking pretty distressed, twisting her hands this way and that. ‘I don’t think Pamela could have got it. She’s away at the moment.’

  ‘No! We were banking on your wife. We’ve got two parenting classes running, you see. One for the primary school which I’m in charge of and one for the main school which your wife is d
oing. She was the only parent who volunteered.’

  Andy could see why. Who would want to put themselves up there as an authority on how to be a perfect parent? When Pamela found out about Mel’s detention, she’d be very upset.

  ‘Of course, whoever leads the course won’t exactly be giving help,’ added the girl. ‘They’ll just be the facilitator.’

  That put a different complexion on it! ‘So you just need someone who can go through the text book and set exercises?’

  ‘Exactly!’ The young girl’s eyes gleamed. ‘Look, Mr Gooding, I hate to ask you this, but I’d be really grateful if you could step in, just for this evening!’

  Him? Andy Gooding leading a ‘How To Be a Perfect Parent’ session? It was a joke. Surely. Except that this young teacher wasn’t laughing. Nor was his daughter, who was mouthing, ‘Don’t do it, Dad. It’s soooo embarrassing!’

  ‘We’re pretty desperate, Mr Gooding. And it won’t take too long to read the leader notes.’

  Andy hesitated. For a moment there, he had a distinct whiff of urine and cabbage, mixed with his foster mother’s voice: ‘You’ll never come to anything, you little sod.’

  He’d show them! Prove them wrong, the lot of them. ‘It will be a pleasure,’ he said, hardly believing his own words. ‘Happy to help.’

  PERFECT PARENTS: SESSION ONE

  SETTING GOALS!

  MAKE A LIST OF BEHAVIOURAL ISSUES THAT YOU WANT TO CHANGE IN THE NEXT EIGHT WEEKS! E.G.:

  EATING WITH MOUTH FULL.

  NOT GOING TO BED.

  NOT GETTING UP.

  FIBBING.

  ANSWERING BACK.

  REFUSING TO WEAR SELECTED CLOTHES.

  BEING UNABLE TO SPEAK, UNLESS IN ONE-SYLLABLE WORDS WHILE TEXTING AT THE SAME TIME.