A Game For All The Family (6 page)

“I’m going to miss the school bus. Shouldn’t I be hurrying to school to track down my missing coat? Isn’t that what you want?”

Her callous tone nearly breaks me. It also reminds me of how much I hate to lose any battle.

Burying the hurt I feel, I say, “Tell you what, forget the school bus. I’ll drive you in. I’ve nothing else to do today.”

“No. No way! I’m getting the bus. Goodbye.” Ellen reaches for the door handle.

Two can play the nasty smirk game. “Fine. I’m going to drive to school anyway. I’ll look for your coat on my own, and you can devote your full attention to being oppressed by the regime. How does that sound?”

Her eyes fill with tears. “No.”

“Face it, Ellen. You can’t stop me from going to school if I’m determined to. What are you going to do, bash me over the head with an umbrella? Knock me unconscious, lock me in the cellar? If I want to wander the corridors asking everyone I pass about your coat—”

“All right.” She bursts into tears. “You want to know that much? I’ll tell you! See how much you enjoy knowing.”

I want to hug her and promise that everything will be okay. I stop myself. It’ll be easier for her to talk if I remain impassive.
Please, please, let this be the moment when it all changes. Let this be the beginning of the end of Ellen’s pain, whatever its cause.

“Go ahead,” I say. “If you’re being bullied, we can tackle it however you want. If you’d like me to go in with all guns blazing, I will. If you want me to find you a different school, I will.”

“Bullied?” She blinks, as if the possibility hasn’t occurred to her. “No, it’s nothing like that.
I’m
fine.”

So someone else isn’t?

“Then what?” I ask.

Ellen shakes her head and walks past me, back into the house.
Too important a conversation to have in the hall.

I stand still for a few seconds, then follow her. I find her in the kitchen, filling the kettle with water. Wow. This is a first. Now she’s putting a teabag in a mug. Ellen doesn’t drink tea or coffee—she thinks both taste disgusting.

She’s making me a drink: something that hasn’t happened before. I watch in stunned silence as she adds the milk, then squashes the bag against the side of the mug with a teaspoon before throwing it in the bin. It’s going to be orange and revolting, but who cares. My daughter has made me a hot drink, unprompted. This is a historic occasion.

She brings the mug over to the table and puts it down where she wants me to sit: opposite her. “My best friend in the whole world was expelled yesterday,” she says. Then, rolling her eyes, “To which you’re going to reply, ‘I didn’t know you had a best friend in the world.’ ”

I didn’t. I’m relieved to hear that such a person exists. Unlike most fourteen-year-olds whose parents announce a sudden house move, Ellen was excited about the prospect of leaving her old school and social circle. “I can make new friends,” she said, and it was as close to a sigh of relief as words can be. In London, she’d been part of a close-knit gang of four: Ellen, Natasha, Priya and Blessing. Blessing and Priya were lovely, but they were also inseparable, and Ellen found herself, at an early stage in the gang’s formation, forced to be the official best friend of Natasha, who was a devious, undermining backstabber with ultracompetitive parents. “Are you sure you’re okay sitting next to me for maths?” Natasha would ask Ellen, all wide eyes and fake concern. “It’s just that I know you find it so hard, and I don’t, and I don’t want you to get upset when I get more answers right than you do.” At least three comments of that sort every day, and other nonsense like random periods of withheld eye contact—strenuously denied when pointed out—soon led to Ellen disliking her supposed best friend intensely.

As she regularly explained to me—and indeed, as I remembered from my own school days—you don’t get to choose your friends at that age. I suggested booting Natasha out of the gang, but, sadly, Priya and Blessing were both far too nice to authorize anything like that.

Before Ellen started at her new school, I warned her about cliquey groups of girls. “Don’t worry,” she said in a world-weary drawl, “I’m going to keep my distance from everyone until I’ve sussed them all out. I’ll be bland and smiley and friendly, but I won’t be anyone’s
friend
. No way.”

Since then she’s mentioned a few names—Lucy, Madeline, Jessica—but there’s been no hint of a change of policy, nothing to herald the arrival on the scene of anyone significant. “So who is this ‘best friend in the whole world’?”

“His name’s George.” Ellen rolls her eyes again. “Yes, he’s a boy. Big deal.”

“I’m just surprised,” I say. “Most people your age pretend to hate the opposite sex, unless they’re . . .” Er, no, let’s not take the conversation in that direction, Justine.

I mustn’t ask if there’s any element of boyfriend/girlfriend to the friendship. It wouldn’t go down well, and it doesn’t matter. “What’s George’s surname?”

Ellen’s eyes fix on me. “Why do you want to know?”

“No reason. I wondered, that’s all.” What have I done wrong? Let me rephrase that, even though no one’s hearing it: I’ve done nothing wrong. So what does Ellen think I’ve done?

“Donbavand,” she mutters, so faintly that I have to ask her to repeat it. And then, because it’s an unusual name, I ask her to spell it. This all takes longer than I want it to.

“And . . . George was expelled?”

Ellen nods. Her expression hardens, and I see how furious she is. Anger radiates from her body in waves. “Yesterday. He did
nothing
wrong. I told them that, but no one believed me. They think he stole my coat, but he didn’t. I gave it to him—at the end of last week. I said he could keep it. It was . . . like a gift.”

“You gave George your coat as a present?”

“Yes. He lost his. It must have been somewhere at school—George doesn’t go anywhere else—but he couldn’t find it and he was literally white-faced with horror at the thought of going home without one. So I gave him mine—which isn’t girly-looking and could easily be a boy’s coat,” Ellen adds defensively, as if my main issue with this story is likely to revolve around the gendered clothing debate.

“I’m sorry, all right?” she snaps. “I knew you’d buy me another one if I said I’d lost mine.”

“Okay. And . . . ?” I wait.

Nothing. The shut-down face.

“I was going to pretend I’d lost it, but then the weather warmed up a bit, so . . . I put off saying anything.”

I sip my tea, wondering what and how much she’s still withholding. We both know there’s a lot more she could tell me. “So . . . I’d buy you a new coat if you lost your old one, but Mrs. Donbavand wouldn’t buy another one for George?”

Ellen’s mouth sets in a firm line, as if she’s trying not to say something. “Mrs. Donbavand isn’t Mrs. She’s Professor.”

“Okay. Well, with her PhD and all, she presumably isn’t on the breadline, and knows how to find the coat section of a department store?”

“She—” Ellen stops as the phone on the kitchen wall starts to ring.

I sigh. I’d suggest leaving it, but it might be Alex. I’d like to hear his voice, if only because it will sound jollier than mine at the moment.

“Hello?” I tuck the phone under my ear so that I don’t have to hold it in my hand. That’s how resentful I am of having to stand in this spot every time I talk on the landline: I’m not willing to make any extra physical effort. Not being able to sit on the sofa is bad enough.

“Are you still pretending you don’t know who I am?” says a voice that is—unfortunately—familiar.

“I wasn’t pretending. I genuinely don’t know who you are. Who are you? Tell me.”

“Pack up your possessions and go home.”

Possessions? For some reason I picture an elaborately carved wooden trunk full of jewels.

“Nooo,” I say, deliberately drawing it out. “You pack up your plan to hound me with threatening phone calls, and fuck off. I
am
at home. This is my home now—not that it’s any of your business.”

Ellen is mouthing “What?” at me.

“You’re trying to scare me, like you always have before, but it won’t work this time,” says my anonymous caller. “Am I supposed to wonder if you’ll destroy me? Is that it? Are you hoping I’ll drive myself mad, not knowing when you’re going to attack?”

“I’m nowhere near as ambitious as you seem to think,” I tell her. “I’m hoping you’ll get off the phone, never call this house again, and have a happy and productive life thereafter. How about that? Does that sound good to you?”

“Get out!” the woman shrieks. It’s such a shrill, violent sound that I gasp. Ellen looks startled.

“Don’t make me hurt you,” stammers the voice, quieter now. “Please don’t, because . . . I don’t want to have to. I’m a peaceful person.”

“Are you sure? That’s not the impression I’m getting.”

“Go back to your TV executive high life in London. Before it’s too late.”

“I shouldn’t have told her to fuck off,” I say for the third time since Ellen and I set off in the car. “Or been sarcastic. I provoked her. Stupid.” The drive to school consists almost entirely of quiet country roads overhung by canopies of trees, with bright winter sun dropping patches of light through the leaves; scattered gold on the tarmac. It’s like speeding through a series of beautifully illuminated green tunnels. I wish the inside of my head were as lovely and peaceful as what I see all around me.

“Why wasn’t I more temperate?” I ask pointlessly. And why didn’t I have the gumption to produce a plausible lie to explain the threatening phone call to Ellen? She’s unhappy enough already, and now I’ve added to her burden by telling her about the stranger who has targeted me for persecution. I should have told Alex first. I’m sure the first thing he’ll say is, “Let’s make sure Ellen doesn’t get wind of this.” Too late.

As someone who screws up all the time, I know exactly what I have and have not done wrong. I’ve never tried to scare or intimidate a woman with a funny sort of lisp. Or anybody at all, for that matter.

Yet she expected me to recognize her voice. Who the hell is she?

Go back to your TV executive high life in London.
That’s too close to be a coincidence. My career—ugh, how I loathe that word now—was in television, though I’d never have described myself as an “executive.” This woman knows where I used to live, and she knows what line of work I was in.

“You’re never temperate,” Ellen says. “You’re a zealot. Please don’t be a zealot when we get to school. I’m the one who has to go there every day. Can’t you just drop me off and then go home?”

“No.”

“Mum,
please
!”

“No, Ellen. If this George boy has been expelled for stealing your coat and he didn’t do it, we need to sort it out.”

“I thought you were determined to do nothing ever again.”

“Yes—apart from have fun. I’m going to enjoy getting George unexpelled.” It will take my mind off the horrible phone calls.

“It won’t work,” says Ellen. “Don’t you think I’ve tried? No one wants to listen.”

“Well, they’re going to listen to me whether they want to or not. I suspect they don’t believe you and think you’re covering for George: he stole your coat, but he’s your best friend, so you’re trying to get him off the hook. To be fair to them . . . a coat is a pretty unusual present.”

“I’m an unusual person. It’s one of my main selling points.”

“You are and it is. But it sounds as if George’s mum is even more unusual. The professor. Before the lunatic called, you were saying she wouldn’t have bought George a new coat—why not?”

“I don’t know! Ask her.”

“Why are you so angry with me, Ellen?”

“I’m not angry with
you.
I just . . .” Her voice cracks. She turns her face away. I can hear her crying, or trying hard not to. I fantasize about smashing my car into the face of whoever has made her so miserable. Is it George’s mother? Mrs. Griffiths, the head? The more the merrier. If they’ve made my daughter cry, I’ll mow them all down—in my dreams, at least.

“It’s okay, El. If yelling at me makes you feel better, I don’t mind. I won’t take it personally.”

“George was scared. He was actually frightened! I’ve never seen anybody look like that apart from in a film, when a murderer or a monster’s chasing them.”

Great. Thanks to my aversion to any and all censorship, my daughter knows what pure terror looks like. If Alex and I hadn’t let her watch so many 18-certificate films, she might still have her coat, and I might be at home, easing myself into another day of pleasurable inactivity. Yesterday I tried meditation for the first time. I’m not sure how well it went. I lay on the chaise longue in the garden room for nearly an hour and a half, but the silent mantra repeating itself in my head was not a peaceful one. The word “fuck” kept cropping up:
fuck your two-page treatments, fuck your series bibles, fuck your show-running and your brainstorming, fuck your greenlights and your BAFTAs—up the arse, actually. Fuck the BBC, fuck ITV, fuck Sky . . .

Something went wrong, clearly, even though I followed the instructions in my meditation book to the letter. It said, “Don’t put any energy into thinking, but if thoughts come into your mind, let them come. Observe them from a distance as they drift in and out. Don’t push them away.” The book doesn’t specify what to do if only a load of fucks turn up.

And now here I am, the very next day, driving to school to cause trouble. Maybe yelling at some teachers for half an hour or so will purge me of all my repressed anger, and my meditations thereafter will be obscenity-free. My life will be a smooth-surfaced pool of tranquility.

“I gave him my coat thinking the worst that would happen was you’d moan at me for losing it,” says Ellen. “If I’d known he’d get expelled, I wouldn’t have given it to him. And now I’ll never see him again.”

“Yes, you will.”

“I won’t. You don’t understand.”

“None of this is your fault, El. You did a kind thing. But . . . George wasn’t scared of going home with a different coat?”

“No. Mine was black and padded; his was a black duffel coat. He said his mum wouldn’t notice the difference.”