Margot’s slap didn’t actually leave a mark on my face, but the next day I wore Sleeping with the Enemy levels of blusher to try make her feel bad. If she did, she didn’t show it. I scowled at her over breakfast as she thumped plates and mugs down with fire-and-brimstone intensity.
Worst part? I felt guilty. Whatever else, I had no business reading her diary. Fact. I probably deserved the slap.
Somehow, for the last week before autumn half-term, we manage to avoid each other. When she enters a room, I make an excuse and leave. If Mum notices the frostiness, she doesn’t comment on it.
Second worst part? I miss the diary. I’d so looked forward to curling up in bed with it every night. It was as comforting as Horlicks and Hobnobs. I miss Past Margot. I hear her clipped voice in my head, passing barbed comments on stupid things teachers say.
I guess that Margot died when the diary finished.
‘What shall we do today?’ Mum says quite unexpectedly. Now it’s Tuesday in the half-term holidays and I’m bored already. It’s Halloween this Friday and we’re watching Halloween at Danny’s, but that’s AGES away.
‘I dunno,’ I say. ‘I’m supposed to write an essay on The Woman in Black.’
‘No!’ Mum rises off the sofa with purpose. ‘Let’s go shopping.’
‘What?’
‘Let’s go into Swansea and do some proper shopping. I think, just this once, we can relax our “we do not speak of Christmas until November” rule.’
I cast an eye over her familiar old towelling robe. That ugly thing is practically a second skin. ‘Are you feeling well enough?’
She rolls her eyes. ‘Yes, Fliss, I am fine. I am so bored of being a sick person. Some days it feels like I’m a walking, talking illness. I swear I used to do something other than sleep. I look at that BAFTA and wonder how I ever got it.’ She gestures meekly at the bronze mask on the mantelpiece. ‘Can we just have a nice, normal, mother–daughter shopping day?’
‘Absolutely!’ I gulp down the last of my tea excitedly. ‘Can we go to Miss Sixty?’
‘We can go wherever you like. My treat.’ Wow. Usually I have to save up for stuff.
‘Does Margot have to come?’ I can’t keep a sullen top note out of my voice.
‘Today is just you and me.’
It feels like shards of sunlight bursting through months and months of cloud. This is it. This is where real life starts up again. Me and Mum, back to London. ‘This is gonna be so cool. I’ll get in the shower.’
By the time we’re both ready, Margot still hasn’t returned from the auction mart. ‘I’m sure she won’t mind if we take the Land Rover,’ Mum says, grabbing the keys off the hook in the kitchen. On the drive, I see Margot must have taken the truck – and with it some of Peanut’s brothers and sisters. ‘Oh, it feels so good to be out of the house.’ Mum turns her face to the sun.
She still looks a little gaunt and pale, but at least she doesn’t need to wig it up any more. Her hair now resembles Winona’s new pixie crop and it kinda works on her. I like it.
All the way to Swansea we listen to Take That at full volume and sing along at the top of our lungs, the way we used to BC. Swansea high street isn’t exactly Oxford Street, but it has actual, recognisable chains with real-life fashion in.
First stop is Virgin Megastore to stock up on CDs. I get the latest from the Backstreet Boys, but also the new Prodigy and No Doubt. I think the Spice Girls might be deeply uncool already, but I might ask ‘Santa’ for their new one as a stocking filler, then I can blame him if I get any flak. Who am I kidding? I can totally just tape it off Danny – I suspect he’ll have it.
After that, Mum treats us to a ‘nice’ lunch at the Conservatory. It’s a gorgeous restaurant, unsurprisingly featuring a big glasshouse on one side. We’re seated next to an ornamental indoor pond filled with huge white-and-orange koi. It reminds me of our ‘Girls’ Days’ BC. Sometimes when Mum got back from filming abroad, she’d treat me to a spa day, or a manicure, or a West End show or a fancy lunch. This is as lovely as anywhere I’ve eaten in London, even if the menu is a little, erm, shall we say ‘provincial’. There’s a lot of jacket potatoes and steak sandwiches on offer. I play it safe and go for minestrone soup.
‘Shall we have dessert?’ Mum says as the waiter hovers over us. His much too small white shirt can barely contain his pecs. It’s all a bit Peter Andre for my liking.
‘I will if you will …’
‘Why don’t we share a sticky toffee pudding?’
‘Hang on,’ I say. ‘Does it have dates in?’ I’ve never understood why you’d put fruit in a cake. Way to ruin cake, guys.
‘I don’t think so,’ he says in a thick French accent. ‘But I will check.’
He returns a moment later and confirms there aren’t, so we order sticky toffee pudding and custard and it’s immense. I won’t need to eat again until Christmas.
‘OK,’ Mum says, ‘what’s the plan? Do we look for Christmas presents or shall we just look at clothes?’
I figure in October there’s still plenty of time to get gifts so suggest I may need some winter clothes. I whip through Topshop like Taz of Tasmania before heading to Miss Selfridge, where I try on every party dress I can get my little hands on. ‘What do you think of this one?’ I say, modelling an A-line shift dress in softest pink suede. ‘It’d look cute with my purple platform boots, don’t you think?’
Mum sighs. ‘But where on earth would you wear it in Llanmarion?’
I pout. ‘I don’t know. Like parties and stuff?’ I realise this year there won’t be a St Agnes Christmas party and I won’t get an invite to Bethany Monroe’s cocktail night or the charity carol gala.
Mum inhales deeply through her nostrils and closes her eyes.
‘Are you OK?’ I ask.
‘I’m fine. I might need a coffee in a bit.’
‘Sure.’
We get Mum a cappuccino and head to Miss Sixty, where I buy a somewhat risky denim miniskirt. After that we take a look in Schuh and finally Etam. I try on a pale purple leather biker jacket. I can’t decide if it looks amazing or a bit cheap and nasty. ‘What do you think?’ I leave the mirror and turn to Mum.
She’s not just leaning on a clothes rail, she’s gripping it.
‘Mum? Are you OK?’ Her eyes are glassy, fixed on the floor. Suddenly I feel like I’m falling. That feeling when a lift goes down too fast. ‘Mum?’
Her lips are milk white. ‘Just give me a second, Fliss.’
She staggers forward and I try to steady her. Even I’m surprised at how light, how fragile, she feels. ‘Mum!’ I sink to my knees, trying to lower her gently to the matted carpet. ‘Please, help!’
People are already staring and I look up into their eyes, begging them to do something, anything. Why are they just bloody standing there? I beg. ‘Please help! It’s my mum! She’s not well!’
A shop assistant not much older than me ditches an armful of jumpers on the floor. ‘Erm … I’ll call an ambulance.’
Mum’s eyes roll back into her skull. ‘Mum? Mum, can you hear me?’
‘Fliss …’ she mutters, like she’s dreaming me.
‘Mum … stay awake!’ I pat her cheek with my palm because that’s what people do on TV. ‘Mum?’
Her eyes close and I look up at the onlookers. They stand there gormless, virtually indistinguishable from the mannequins. ‘Mum,’ I whisper in her ear. ‘Please don’t die.’
You can’t, I think. You can’t die in Tammy Girl.