And Baby Makes Two

CDs with her token: the soundtrack to Titanic and the soundtrack to The Bodyguard. I put on Titanic. Titanic was my favourite film that year.

I lay in the bath with the light out and the candles flickering, and forgot about school and my mother and my dreary, boring life. I rewrote Titanic in my head. Instead of Jack dying in the sea and Rose ending up as an old lady who could hardly walk, they both drifted off on a door and ended up on a deserted island. The water was blue-green and palm trees swayed in a gentle breeze. We ate coconuts and bananas and Jack caught fish with his bare hands. It was paradise. Just the two of us, with no one else to push us around. I closed my eyes and I was making love to Jack on the white sand in the moonlight. Since I’d never been out with anyone, I’d never actually made love, of course, but I’d seen enough films to get the general idea. His kisses were electric. He looked down at me in the cool white shine of the moon. My body glistened with sand.

“You don’t need jewels, Rose,” Jack whispered. “You’re beautiful as you are…”

The moist, full lips, soft as cotton balls moved towards mine.

A sudden furious banging on the bathroom door interrupted our kiss.

I froze with my face in the duck sponge. I hadn’t even heard her come in.

“Lana?” my mother bawled. “Lana, are you going to be out of there soon? I need to go to the toilet.”

I’d blown all my birthday money on a new outfit that was special enough for Planet Hollywood. It was absolutely fabulous. The dress was silky and black, with thin straps dotted with rhinestones and a rhinestone heart on the left breast. I saw Julia Roberts wearing something very similar on a chat show. The dress was so clingy that you couldn’t wear anything underneath except really thin tights. I got silver tights in Sock Shop that were really thin but glittery, though not too glittery. Glittery like Cher would wear, not glittery like Baby Spice. And I bought this black lace jacket to go over the dress.

But the most expensive things I bought were the shoes. They were incredible. They were black and silver, with chunky six-inch heels, thick soles and ankle straps. They were the kind of shoes you’d wear if you were going to the Oscars. The old cow would have a fit if she knew how much I spent on those shoes.

I had some articles I’d cut out of magazines that showed you how to make yourself up like a model. I spread them out on my dressing-table with all my new make-up. Foundation, lipgloss, eye shadow, mascara, eyeliner – I had the lot in the trendiest autumn shades. I teetered in front of the mirror, trying to get my face just right. It’s important to look natural, but more perfect than natural. One of the articles said you should dust a little talc on your lashes to hold the mascara better, but that didn’t work too well. I got powder in my eyes and everything started running. I had to go back to the bathroom to wash it all off and start again.

Charley arrived straight from the garage while I was rubbing fresh Nivea into my skin. The old cow started banging on the door again.

“Lana!” she bellowed. “Lana, Charley needs a shower.”

Knowing Charley, I reckoned what he really needed was dry-cleaning. I personally couldn’t go out with a man who was covered in grease all the time. I was only going to date professionals.

“For God’s sake!” I screamed back. “How am I supposed to get ready when you keep interrupting me?”

I threw the towel at the rack and staggered back to my room. I didn’t have much experience with six-inch heels.

I was just choosing my perfume when she started screaming again.

“For the love of God, Lana! Do you think there’s any chance we’ll get out of the house tonight?”

“I’m coming… I’m coming…” I screamed back. “Just give me a minute, will you?”

I sprayed some Tommy Girl on my pulse points, put on my lace jacket, and studied myself in the mirror. I was knockout. Really knockout. I looked at least twenty. A twenty-year-old model, that’s what I looked like.

I gave my reflection a sexy smile.

“Kate Winslet, eat your heart out,” I whispered. “Eat your heart out, and choke.”

My mother and Charley were in the kitchen, having a glass of wine while they waited for me. As per usual, they didn’t offer me any. Not even on my birthday. My best friend Shanee’s mother let her have a drink on special occasions, but the strongest thing Hilary Spiggs would let me have was Diet Coke.

I walked slowly down the hall, trying not to sway too much.

“Here I am,” I called as I reached the door. I tossed my hair and smiled shyly. Like Cher in Moonstruck when she’s had her make-over and she sees Nicolas Cage waiting for her, wondering if he’ll notice the difference. “All ready to go!”

In Moonstruck, Nicolas Cage is gobsmacked by the sight of Cher all dressed up with her hair in curls.

In my kitchen, my mum and Charley were pretty gobsmacked by the sight of me.

Charley was nearest the door.

“Wow,” said Charley. “Look at you!” Then he started to say “Happy Birthday, Lana,” but he only got as far as “Hap—”

She’d been staring at me in silence, more like a rabbit caught in the headlights than Nicolas Cage caught by love, and then she went off like a siren.

“What the hell are you supposed to be dressed up for?” she shrieked. “You’re not going out with us, looking like that.”

Charley glanced over at her. “Hilary,” said Charley. “Hilary, don’t start.”

“Go right back to your room and take that junk off your face this minute!” she roared. “And put on something decent while you’re at it.”

“I am decent.” My voice was as stiff as my eyelashes.

“Only if you’re a child prostitute,” she informed me. “We’re not going anywhere with you dressed like a tart.”

Charley knocked back his wine. “You look like you might be cold,” he mumbled. “Have you got a coat?”

“Never mind the coat,” she roared. “She isn’t leaving this house like that, and that’s final.”

Charley looked at his glass in case it had been magically topped up since he emptied it.

Sometimes I didn’t know why she put up with Charley. He was unattractive, overweight, filthy ninety-five per cent of the time, and he never wanted to do anything but go to the pub with his mates or watch telly. But sometimes I didn’t know why he put up with her, with her nasty moods and everything. This was one of the times I felt sorry for him.

“For Christ’s sake, Hil,” said Charley. “It’s Lana’s birthday. Let her be.”

My mother turned her glare from me to him. “It’s her fifteenth birthday, not her thirtieth.” She was pronouncing her words really clearly. She went back to glaring at me. “I’m your mother,” she informed me.

Big news.

“So what?” I screamed back. “I’m not a little kid any more. You can’t keep treating me like I’m a baby.”

She gave me her Mother Face. The Mother Face wasn’t pleasant and affectionate and understanding like the face of the mother in the Oxo ad. The Mother Face made it clear that she knew everything, and that she could say or do anything and it was all right because she once carried me around inside her for a couple of months. Big deal.

“I’m your mother,” she said again. In case I’d forgotten in the two seconds since the last time she said it.

“Not ’cos you wanted to be!” I screamed. “You never wanted me.” I knew this because I’d heard her talking to my nan about it when we went to Hastings in the summer. I was an accident. My sisters were already grown up; she’d really been planning to go back to college.

“What are you talking about? Of course I wanted you.”

“No you didn’t. You wanted to drink gin and throw yourself down the stairs.”

She rolled her eyes and sighed.

“If you don’t get that stuff off your face and put on something decent, I’m going to drink gin and throw you down the stairs,” said my mother.

“I’m fifteen,” I said in my coldest, most grown-up voice. “Everybody my age dresses like this.”

“Everybody your age does not live with me.”

“I don’t hear anybody crying.”

She slammed her glass down on the counter. “As long as you live in this house, you do what I say. Now go back to your room and put on some clothes.”