And Baby Makes Two

“No.” My lower lip trembled. “I’m not changing, and you can’t make me.”

The old witch cackled. “Oh can’t I?”

Charley said, “Hil, let it go, all right? She’ll be sitting down anyway, what’s the difference?” He gave me a weak smile. “You look really pretty.”

She looked like she wanted to hit him.

“Stay out of this, Charley. This is my house and my daughter!” The glasses on the draining-board started to rattle as the decibel level rose. “I don’t need any advice on bringing up children from you.”

Charley gazed at the wine bottle with real longing, but it was behind her shoulder and he knew better than to try to make a grab for it.

“Hil, for Christ’s sake. You’re getting all wound up about nothing. Let’s just get our coats and go, all right? Have a nice me—”

“I’m not going anywhere with her looking like that!” She was talking to him, but she was looking at me. “Am I making myself clear, Little Miss Babe Power? You can have cheese on toast for your birthday dinner for all I care.”

My teeth were clenched so tight I thought they might chip.

“That’s fine with me!” I shrieked back. “The only place I’d go with you is your funeral, you miserable old cow.”

That was when she hit me. Slap with her palm, right on the cheek.

“Don’t you talk to me like that.” She was shaking with rage. “I’m your mother.”

I put my face right into hers. “Well, I bloody well wish you weren’t. Do you hear me? I’d rather have Cruella De Vil as my mother!”

“The way you’re going, you may get your wish!” shrieked the Wicked Witch.

And I ran out of the room and out of the flat as fast as a person on six-inch heels could.

Happy Birthday to Me

If I’d had somewhere to go, I’d’ve gone there.

But I didn’t. We never saw my dad again after he left, so he was out. My half-sisters, Charlene and Dara, both lived south of the river, and my nan lived in Hastings, so they were out, too. So was Shanee, because even though she lived just down the road she’d gone away for the weekend.

I marched through the boring streets of northwest London on automatic.

I was back on the Titanic, pushing through the hysterical mobs, looking for Jack. I was wearing the bomber jacket he’d put around me. I was still soaked from the icy waves that broke across the ship as she sunk deeper and deeper into the endless water, but my soul was on fire. I would not die without seeing him one more time. “Jack!” screamed my heart. “Jack! Jack! Jack!”

A door blocked my way. I pushed it open with my last desperate burst of strength.

McDonald’s was warm and bright. A pub would’ve been more suitable for my mood, but I was too young to go to a pub, of course. Yet another disadvantage of youth.

My dress was stuck to me like a wet tissue. It was like wearing nothing and a really tight, uncomfortable bodysuit at the same time. Blisters were already throbbing on my feet. But I didn’t care. I didn’t even glance at myself in the glass door as I marched through, that’s how much I didn’t care.

There were maybe a dozen people in the restaurant, including the bored-looking kids behind the counter. I strode through the empty tables as if I was going up to get my Oscar, but instead of an Oscar I got a Big Mac, large fries and a chocolate milkshake. None of those things are exactly great for your skin, but I didn’t care about that just then either. What was the use of having good skin and knowing how to dress and wear make-up if you never had a chance to show yourself off a bit? There wasn’t any use, that was what. If my mother had her way, I’d still be wearing a Babygro and sucking on a dummy.

I sat at a table by the window, so I’d have something to do besides cry while I ate.

Some bloody birthday.

McDonald’s is all right, but it isn’t Planet Hollywood. Without the mothers and children it was pretty dead. Like a film set between takes. And it was too bright, brighter than usual. It reminded me of a hospital. You know, all cheery with yellow walls and fluorescent lights so no one will notice that they’re dying.

I turned my back on the hanging plants and the posters advertising the latest Disney blockbuster, and stared into the rain.

Happy Birthday to me, I thought as I took out my burger. Happy Birthday, dear Lana, Happy Birthday to me.

I bit into my Big Mac. It tasted like cardboard with ketchup and a slice of pickle on it.

A couple stopped on the other side of the window, trying to keep dry while they waited for a bus. They had their arms linked and he was holding the umbrella over her head. They looked really happy.

I felt like I was going to choke. I dropped my burger and bit my lip.

Don’t cry, I told myself. Wait till you get back outside.

I’d never thought about it before, but I reckoned that was why people in songs were always walking in the rain, so nobody could tell that they were sobbing their hearts out.

I opened my tiny tub of ketchup and dipped a chip in it, thinking about all the other girls in the world whose birthday was on the twenty-fifth of October. They were having parties with all their friends laughing around them. They had heaps of presents and everybody was hugging them and telling them how terrific they looked. Their mothers loved them. Then I thought about a girl I’d read about who died at her own birthday party. When I first read it I thought it was really sad and depressing, but just then, dripping in one corner of McDonald’s, I would have changed places with her like a shot. I mean, so she was dead, so what? At least she’d had a good time. It was a lot better than dying of pneumonia with the smell of stale grease on your breath.

I stuck my straw in my milkshake and took a sip. The couple on the other side of the window were snogging. The umbrella banged against the glass.

I gave up and let the tears come. Sip … sip … gulp … gulp … sip … sip … gulp … gulp…

I felt like a trapped animal, as if no matter what I did I was never going to escape. I was always going to be Hilary Spiggs’ little kid, being yelled at and told what to do.

I was crying so much that I didn’t even know he was there, sitting at the table beside me.

And then I heard his voice.

I looked over, trying to suck back a few thousand tears.

He couldn’t’ve been there long, because he hadn’t even unwrapped his straw yet. He was leaning towards me, holding out a pocket packet of tissues. He looked embarrassed.

“Are you all right?” He jabbed the tissues in my direction. “Your—I—”

I couldn’t speak.

Partly this was because I was trying to stop crying, but partly it was because of him. He wasn’t Leonardo DiCaprio, but he wasn’t bad. He was tall, dark and slim. He didn’t have spots, or wear glasses, or dress like his mother still bought his clothes. In fact, he was a pretty sharp dresser. I’d seen John Travolta on a chat show wearing a shirt almost the same shade of blue as his. And he was wearing a top-of-the-range Baby G. Plus, he was well over twenty. It was like Sleepless in Seattle the first time Tom Hanks’ and Meg Ryan’s eyes meet. It was a dream come true.

He leaned a bit closer, still waving the packet.

“Your make-up,” he said. “I thought you might need these.”

I was so touched by his incredible kindness and sensitivity that I nearly started crying again. I took a breath and smiled. It was the smile I always practised in the mirror: sunny but sexy. It was the best smile I had.

“Thanks.” I kept the smile, but looked down at the table so he’d know I was shy and embarrassed, too, and not in the habit of having nervous breakdowns in public. “I’m sorry—”

Our fingers touched as I took the tissues from his hand. Maybe if they hadn’t, I’d’ve mopped my eyes with his tissues and that would’ve been the end of it. But they did touch. Electricity shot through me. I didn’t want him to