Suzy P and the Trouble with Three (2 page)

I sigh enviously.

“Make sure you show me what that dress looks like,” Millie says, swishing the curtain behind her. “No chickening out.”

I wriggle out of my clothes and attempt to squeeze into the dress, pulling the zip up as far as I can. It only gets halfway up my side. I’m not exactly big, but the dress is so tight there are little rolls of fat appearing all over the place. Plus it’s so short you can practically see my knickers, and so tight I can only walk in teeny-tiny Geisha girl steps.

My blotchy corned-beef skin teamed with
forgotten-to
-shave pits don’t exactly help the overall look, either.

“I’m not coming out, you’re going to have to come in,” I call to Millie. There’s no way I’m risking anyone seeing me.

Millie sticks in her head and cracks up. “That is too horrendous,” she says, fumbling for her phone. “Let me take a photo for the boys…”

“Er, no flipping way,” I say, clasping my trousers in front of me with one hand to cover up as much of my body as I can, while swatting Millie away with the other.

“You’ve seen it now, I’m taking it off,” I say, but when I pull at the zip nothing happens.

I tug again.

And again.

Tug. Tug. Tug.

Nothing.

Oh God. I’m completely and utterly stuck!

Millie’s laughing so hard there are tears streaming down her cheeks.

“This isn’t funny,” I say, although I’m giggling too.

Millie’s still doing her utmost to nab a photo when her phone rings. “Hi, Soph,” she answers hesitantly, greeting her older sister. “Uh huh, uh huh, oh no, really?” Millie’s tone is serious. I can make out Sophie’s voice, high and stressed, although I can’t hear exactly what she’s saying. After a couple of minutes, Millie says, “I’ll be home as soon as I can,” and hangs up.

“Everything okay?” I ask.

“Um, yeah, fine. I’ve got to go. Sorry.”

“You can’t, I need your help to get the dress off,” I call, as Millie rushes away. She’s not even stopping to buy the top she wanted so much.

“Millliieee,” I howl in despair. “You can’t just leave me here.”

“Sorry,” Millie calls over her shoulder.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the store will be closing in five minutes. Please take your purchases to the till,” a voice announces over the intercom.

This can’t be happening.

What am I supposed to do now?

I think
I’m about to hyperventilate.

I’m stuck in the world’s most disgusting dress and the shop’s about to close. As far as I can make out, I’ve only got two choices – reveal myself looking this way and ask the shop assistants for help, or stay here all night.

Neither option is particularly appealing.

Don’t panic, Suze. Just don’t panic.

I can’t believe Millie left me here like this!

Think
, for goodness sake. There’s got to be
something
you can do.

But I can’t come up with anything. Not one single solution, other than… I’m going to have to go onto the shop floor and ask for help.

As much as I don’t want anyone to see me like this, I can’t stay in this changing room until morning.

I grab my stuff and hold it up like a protective shield, trying to cover as much of me as possible before I creep out.

Fortunately the shoppers have gone and there are only two assistants left, pulling down the shutters and fiddling with the till. I shuffle awkwardly in their direction. They’re engrossed in a conversation about a bar they’re going to after work.

“Uh, excuse me?” I say.

The assistants turn, and when they catch sight of me, they’re unable to disguise their horrified expressions. Their name badges tell me they’re called Abi and Lou.

“She’s wearing that dress,” I hear Lou mutter. “You owe me a fiver. I knew someone would buy it one day.”

“We’re closing, I’m afraid,” says Abi. “If you want to buy that, you’ll have to come back tomorrow. We’ve shut the tills.”

“Yeah, that’s sort of the problem,” I say awkwardly. “I tried this dress on and now I can’t get it off.”

Lou snorts loudly and ducks down behind the counter.

“You’re stuck in the dress?” Abi’s lips are twitching dramatically, like they’re doing some kind of dance.

“Uh huh,” I say, lifting up my arm to show them the zip, straining halfway down my side.

Oh, this is mortifying. Now they’re getting a full close-up view of my once-white-now-grey bra and bristly armpit.

Abi yanks at the zip. “Wow, this really is jammed. Lou, give me a hand, would you?”

Lou manages to compose herself enough to join us.

“You hold the material down here,” instructs Abi, “I’ll pull here, and…”

Several minutes later they’re still heaving and pulling at the zip.

“Have you seen the time?” Lou hisses. “We’re meeting the guys soon.”

Lou straightens up and checks her watch. “Okay, tell you what, we’ll mark the dress down as damaged and unsaleable and you can wear it home. You can cut it off later.”

“What? No!” I say in horror.

They can’t be serious… can they?

I honestly didn’t think there’d be anything worse than revealing myself in this dress to the shop assistants. Turns out there is – revealing myself to the world.

“Can’t we cut it off here?” I plead.

“Sorry,” Abi says. “Not enough time. We need to go, we’ve got an important stock meeting.”

“But she said you were going to meet some guys,” I point out indignantly.

“To discuss stock,” Lou says. “And we can’t be late. Haven’t you got a coat or something?”

“No,” I say, once again cursing my lost blazer. “Just my school shirt and trousers.”

“You could put the shirt over the top,” Abi says. She checks the tag in the dress, and makes a note of the barcode number. “I’ll scan that through in the morning, but now, it’s all yours.”

“Thanks,” I say gloomily as I wriggle into my shirt, and slip on my shoes, which don’t go with the dress
at
all
. I can’t even put my trousers on underneath – the dress is too clingy for that to be an option, and putting them on top would look weirder.

“At least you got a free dress out of it,” Lou says, as she escorts me to the exit. The dress is so tight I can only take teetering penguin steps.

As the door closes behind me and the shutters drop down, the last thing I see in the shop is Lou and Abi, bent double with laughter.

Gnargh.

Standing outside Pink Panda, and yanking at my hem with my free hand, trying to cover more than a millimetre of thigh, I frantically dial home.

If nobody can come and get me, things are rapidly going to get worse, as my only choice will be to walk through the shopping centre and get on the bus.

Pick up, pick up
, I pray. People are staring curiously
as they pass, but I’m doing my best to ignore them.

There’s no answer. The phone rings and rings, until the answerphone kicks in. Rats!

“You’ve reached the Puttock household,” Dad’s voice recites. “You probably don’t want to speak to me, but to one of the women I live with. If so, ring their mobiles. That’s why I pay all those damn phone bills. Otherwise, leave a message after the tone.”

“Mum, Dad, it’s Suzy,” I say. “Um, I’ve had a bit of an incident in town, and I need you to call me as soon as you can. It’s urgent, okay?”

I ring both their mobiles next, but they’re switched off. Pulling the bus timetable out of my bag, I scan it quickly. To my dismay, the last bus home is leaving in ten minutes and I’ve not got enough cash for a taxi. If Mum and Dad don’t get my message, I won’t be able to get home.

Which means I’m going to have to head for the bus stop.

Pushing my shoulders back, I decide the only way to carry this off is with an air of panache and fake confidence. I start to strut through the shopping centre, but the people laughing and pointing are somewhat off-putting. My confidence fizzles away until soon I’m doing a tottering waddle, head down, tugging my hem every painful step of the way.

One last check of my mobile, and I try the house phone again, but no joy. Nobody’s around.

Flipping marvellous.

So that leaves getting the bus, then. As I join the crowd of people waiting for the number 16, I hear stifled giggles, and realise the Mulberry girls are leaning up against a wall, watching me and sniggering.

It’s at this point I realise I am never going to be as glamorous and sophisticated as those two. Ever. I bet nothing like this happens to them.

I busy myself trying to find some money in my purse, but fumble with the zip so the coins end up falling everywhere. It’s impossible to bend down elegantly in this stupid dress, but I scrabble around on the ground for the ones within reach and pray I’m not showing my pants.

My face is now burning so hotly I may spontaneously combust.

After the bus arrives I sink down into a free seat. The Mulberry girls glide past and settle themselves behind me. They get stuck straight into a discussion about summer holidays. One’s going to the family home in ‘Barbs’ (takes me a minute to figure out she means Barbados – hey, haven’t we all got a place in the Caribbean?) while the other’s looking forward to popping in to see her personal shopper in Selfridges at the weekend before heading off to Australia.

I sigh enviously. I
knew
life was better for Mulberry girls.

After the world’s longest bus ride, I finally make it to the house. Mrs Green, who lives next door, gets quite the surprise when she sees me scuttling past.

“You’ll catch your death, love,” she calls after me.

“Hello?” I say apprehensively, once I’m safely inside. No answer. In the middle of the kitchen table there’s a note, saying everyone’s gone to the nursing home to see Aunt Lou.

Missing out on a visit to Great Aunt Lou has to be the one high point of this pretty pants afternoon. Also known as Aunt Loon, she’s as vicious as a viper and has an equally poisonous tongue.

And there’s another bright side. Because now I suppose at least I can get out of this dress without anyone seeing me. Harry would have a field day if she clocked me looking like this. I’d never hear the end of it.

Now where are the scissors? I seriously need to get this dress off. The kitchen ones aren’t sharp enough, so I grab Mum’s dressmaker’s scissors from the drawer in the sitting room, and try to cut past the zip, but it’s no good. I can’t get the angle right, and after stabbing myself in the ribs, drawing blood, I realise I’m going to have to wait for someone to come and free me. So I wait. And I wait.

I text Millie, but she doesn’t answer. She’s not online either. I ponder ringing Danny, but his documentary’s on and if I try to speak to him all I’ll get is a few huffy grunts. It’ll be too late by the time the Star Wars fest is finished for him to come over and free me.

I eat tea, which makes the tight dress even tighter and more uncomfortable. Eventually, I give up on waiting for someone to come home and go to bed.

Still wearing the dress.

I wake
with a start the next morning as Amber lands on the end of my bed. The mattress practically tilts over as she lowers her vast bulk onto it. I stare at her through bleary eyes, then at the alarm clock.

6.30 a.m.

Really?
It’s the first day of the summer holidays. I want to sleep! I’m knackered, as I was jerking awake all night long, panicking I was dying. This stupid dress kept making me feel like I was suffocating.

“Oooh, goody, you’re up,” Amber says.

“Well, I am now, because you woke me,” I say, grumpily. “But now you’re here, you can help me with something…”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Amber says, like she’s not even heard me. Will nobody help me out of this flipping frock? I don’t think she’s even
noticed
I’m not in my PJs.

“I needed someone to talk to,” she continues.

“You have a husband,” I remind her. “Who sleeps in
your room, in your bed, right next to you. Every. Single. Night. Can’t you speak to him instead?”

“Oh, you know Markymoo, he’s such a heavy sleeper,” Amber says. “And besides, I wanted you, Suzypoos. You’re much better at talking baby stuff than he is. You can’t really talk about that kind of thing with boys.”

Hmm. Well, I suppose it is kinda awesome becoming an aunt to twins. It’s a shame they’re not identical, that would be cooler than cool, but twins of any sort are still pretty amazing. And I am much more tolerant towards my sister these days, ever since she helped me and Danny get back together after our break-up at the beginning of the year.

“What about Mum?” I say, giving up on getting any help from Amber and snuggling under the duvet. “She can chat babies morning, noon and night. Didn’t you try her?”

“I did,” Amber says regretfully, “but Dad kicked me out and told me if I didn’t leave he’d lock me in the wardrobe. As if I’d fit. That’s no way to talk to your pregnant daughter, if you ask me.”

Dad still hasn’t quite recovered from the shock of hearing that his eldest is expecting twins. There’s the possibility there could be two more females in there waiting to invade his territory, and he’s not dealing with the prospect particularly well. Amber and Mark have
been majorly strong-willed about refusing to find out the sexes of the babies. We all thought Amber would be dying to know, but she’s decided she wants a surprise.

“Budge up and let me get in,” Amber says.

“This is a single bed,” I protest, as Amber leaves me with about a millimetre of space and hanging dangerously off the edge.

She huffs and puffs for ages, trying to get comfortable, then admits defeat and sits up instead, leaning against the headboard and rubbing her bump. “Oh, Babyboos, you do make Mummy so uncomfy, don’t you?” she says. “I’ll be glad when I can get some sleep again.”

“You do know you’re having twins, right?” I say. “I think it’s going to be years before that happens.”

“Shush,” Amber says. “These two are going to be perfect angels. Now, look at this Conni G column.” She thrusts a pregnancy magazine in my face. Amber worships Conni G, who had a baby recently and now writes a column about it. Apparently a fake-tanned, botoxed, silicone-breasted airhead is exactly the person to turn to for parenting advice.

Our future generations are doomed.

“You know how Conni called her baby Pashmina?” Amber says.

I nod my head warily. Amber’s name suggestions have got weirder and weirder as the pregnancy’s gone on.

“Well, I’ve been thinking about clothes-themed names for my babies. What about Scarf and Kaftan? Really unusual, don’t you think? And it wouldn’t matter if they were boys or girls…”

Scarf and Kaftan Mycock?
Seriously?

“Um… I’m not sure that would work,” I say. It is way too early to be tactfully negotiating this level of mental. “Wouldn’t they get bullied?”

“You think?” Amber’s genuinely surprised. “Nobody seems to like any of my choices.” She pouts, but her face brightens as the door is nudged open. “Oooh, look, here’s Crystal Fairybelle,” Amber squeals in delight as her Chihuahua takes a flying leap at the bed. She covers him in kisses, pulling the duvet off me as she does so.

“Why are you wearing a dress?” Amber asks, once she’s finished the Crystal love-fest.

It took her long enough to notice.

“Long story,” I say, grabbing the dressmaking scissors from the bedside cabinet. “Cut me out, would you?”

“Cut you out? No way. That dress is amazing. Is it a new style you’re trying? Much better than your normal look which is, well, kind of blah.”

“Charming, thanks.”

It’s not my fault all I can afford is Primark and Mum’s totally tight with my clothing budget.

Amber laughs. “You know what I mean. You look the same as everyone else. Be more like Millie, stand out from the crowd.”

“I’m happy blending in, thanks,” I tell her. “Now, please chop. The zip’s stuck and I can’t wear it any more. I really, really, need to breathe.”

“There’s got to be a way to free you without ruining it,” Amber says, fiddling with the zip, but eventually giving up. “Nope. You’re stuck fast. You’re sure you want me to cut it?”

“I really, really am.”

As Amber snips the dress away, my whole body sags with relief.

Ahh, I feel so free!

I chuck the dress into the corner of my room, then wriggle into my PJ bottoms and sweatshirt, Amber watching enviously. “Look at you, you’re so slim…”

“Yeah, well, I’m not seven months pregnant, am I?”

“True,” Amber concedes. “Although actually, I’m nearly thirty-two weeks now. Ooh, one of the babies is moving.” She grabs my hand and places it on her stomach.

Wow. As I feel the persistent kicks, I marvel again that my sister is actually growing two teeny tiny people inside her. It blows my mind while at the same time completely terrifying me.

I’m not sure the world is ready for mini Amber and Mark hybrids.

I’m certainly not.

“That’s got to be a boy, hasn’t it, kicking like that?” I ask.

“Who knows?” Amber says, nuzzling her Chihuahua. “But whatever happens, you’re going to be godmother, aren’t you, Crystal? Or, rather, dogmother. You’ll share the responsibility of the babies with me, won’t you, doggy-woggy? Conni was talking about balancing careers and babies in her column this week,” Amber informs me solemnly. “She says it’s very difficult to juggle both. It’s a big sacrifice for me to give up my job and be a full-time mother.”

Amber ‘works’ as an aromatherapist. She has one client, her friend Fleur, who she treats in her bedroom once a fortnight. She’s hardly what you’d call a high-flyer.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” I reassure her.

“I guess. Mmm, I’m so tired,” Amber says, with a huge yawn.

I close my eyes and, although I’m still precariously close to tipping off the bed due to Amber and Crystal hogging most of the available space, eventually I doze off.

We wake up again at a much more civilised time.

“Breakfast?” I say.

“Definitely,” Amber says. “I’m starving.”

As Amber and I make our way downstairs, I hear the letterbox clatter, and detour to grab the post. Nothing for me, but there are about eight baby product catalogues for Amber and a letter for Mum, with a gorgeous handwritten envelope. The stamp is foreign, and as I peer more closely, I see that the letter’s come from Italy. Must be from Caro, Mum’s super glam, super rich friend who lives out there.

In the kitchen, Mum leaps up from her chair, dashes over to Amber, and takes her arm to lead her over to the table. “Come on, love, you sit down. Take the weight off.”

“Yeah, fatty,” says Harry, taking a huge bite of toast.

“Harry, that’s not kind,” Mum says.

“Am I getting too big, Mum?” Amber asks, her bottom lip starting to wobble. “I know I’ve put on a lot of weight, but everyone says you do with twins…”

“You look wonderful,” Mum says. “You’re blooming. Absolutely blooming. Isn’t she, Chris?”

“Blooming massive,” Dad mutters to Harry and they both crack up.

“Stop it, you two,” Mum says.

“I
am
massive, though,” Amber says. “Even my feet are fat.”

She waves a swollen elephant foot in the air dramatically. Over the last few months, my once slender sister has been
swallowed up by babies and water retention. She’s lived in baggy clothes and flip-flops since she passed the five month stage, as nothing else fits. If she keeps growing at this rate, she’ll need her own postcode soon.

“Ignore them,” Mum says, rubbing Amber’s shoulders. “You look beautiful. Now, can I get your breakfast?”

“Yes, please,” Amber says. “Could I have some fresh fruit with honey and Greek yogurt, then maybe a full English with extra hash browns? Ooh, and if it’s not too much trouble, some pancakes with chocolate spread and maple syrup?”

Hmmm. Eating like this could possibly be why Amber’s looking a little, erm, bloated.

“You’re going to eat
all
that?” Dad says.

“I’m hungry,” Amber says. “Plus, I’m eating for three.”

“Coming right up,” Mum says. “You have to give those babies all the nutrients they need.”

“I’ll have some toast, if you could stick in a couple of pieces of bread, please,” I ask.

“Can you do it yourself, love? I’m busy,” Mum says, bustling around, pulling things out of cupboards. “And don’t use that bread, it’s Amber’s,” she says, whisking the organic seeded loaf out of my hands and replacing it with the value white sliced.

Flipping charming.

“We need to start thinking about buying things for the babies, Mum,” Amber says.

“Things? What things?” Dad says, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.

“Cots, buggies, nappies, clothes, changing table, monitors…” Amber starts.

“But you’re paying for that, aren’t you?” Dad says, alarmed.

“Yes, Daddy,” Amber says. “Mark’s been doing lots of overtime. But Mum needs to come and help me choose it all. Now, what do we think of the names Twinkle and Tootle for the twins?”

There’s a deathly silence.

“No?” Amber says. “I think Twinkle and Tootle are cute. Only for girls, though, obviously.”

“Which they’re not going to be,” Dad says.

“Um, a letter came for you, Mum,” I say, realising a speedy change of subject is in order. I slide the envelope across the table.

“Careful,” Mum says. “Don’t get it mixed up with my competition notes.”

By the side of Mum’s plate there’s a huge stack of scrap paper and Post-its. Ever since Dad enforced the Puttock Emergency Budget, Mum’s become obsessed with entering competitions, convinced she’s going to win our way out of trouble.

She hangs out in the newsagent’s for ages, flicking through papers and magazines, making notes of all the competition email addresses. I think the newsagent’s on the verge of banning her, to be honest. She’s not good for business, especially as she frequently ends up engrossed in the magazines while she’s there, right under the huge sign that says
Please don’t read unless you intend to buy.

Mum’s aiming high, hoping for a holiday win or a new TV for the lounge. So far, she’s won a year’s supply of cat food (we don’t have a cat) and a pack of dishcloths. Hardly ground-breaking stuff. But still, Mum makes her notes all week, then boots everyone off the computer every Saturday morning so she can email in her entries.

Mum places the first course of Amber’s breakfast down, carefully moves her stuff onto the counter, then rips open her letter.

“Who’s it from?” Harry asks.

“Caro,” Mum murmurs distractedly.

“Who’s Caro?” Harry asks.

Mum doesn’t answer, but turns the paper over and keeps reading.

“You know, Mum’s old friend from college,” I say. “She lives in Italy.”

Mum’s eyebrows are furrowed as her eyes flick across
the words. Finally she puts the letter down and takes a long drink of coffee.

“Can’t she just email, like a normal person?” Dad says.

“Well, you know what Caro’s like, flatly refuses to embrace any kind of technology. She’s not having an easy time by the sounds of it,” Mum says. “She’s still living in Italy, but she’s coming back to England soon. She’s getting divorced from Luca.”

Dad snorts. “Surprise, surprise. That’s, what… divorce number three, now?”

“Mmm. She’s asking if Isabella can come and stay with us. It won’t be a problem, of course, but we’ll need to get some things ready for her,” Mum muses.

Dad starts to choke on a mouthful of tea. “Isabella’s coming to stay?”

“That’s what this letter’s about,” Mum says. “The divorce is getting a bit messy and Caro’s sending Isabella on ahead while she sorts out the final bits and pieces. She’s lost touch with most of her other friends here and thought it would be nice for Isabella to come and see us.”

“Who’s Isabella?” Harry asks.

“Caro’s daughter,” I explain. I vaguely remember them visiting us, years ago, after divorce number two. Isabella spent the whole time hiding behind Caro’s legs, and wouldn’t play in the den I’d built.

“How long’s she coming for?” Dad asks.

“Only a couple of weeks,” Mum says.

“A couple of weeks?”

“Why have we never met her?” Harry interrupts again.

“You have,” Mum says. “You were very young at the time. Caro’s a bit… flighty. She’s moved around a lot, and been in and out of touch. There are photos of her and Isabella around somewhere. I’ll go and see if I can find them.”

Mum disappears off into the dining room. A few minutes later she returns, waving a photo triumphantly.

“Found it,” she says. “This is Isabella and Caro. Look.”

We all lean in to peer at the picture of a young, geeky girl, with big glasses and neatly tied dark hair pulled into bunches. She’s smiling warily at the camera, in front of a forest backdrop, next to a blonde, glamorous woman wearing the tightest pair of white jeans I’ve ever seen, a fierce pout and gigantic sunglasses.

“The last thing this house needs is anyone else moving in,” Dad says. “We’re full to bursting already, and we’re getting two new recruits any day—” He stops short at Mum’s expression. “Oh, for Heaven’s sake. When’s Isabella arriving?”

“A week Thursday,” Mum says. “I’ll give Caro a call
after breakfast to confirm the details.”