The following morning, I leave a dozing Stella in bed and walk to work.
The Rushton farmers’ market takes place every Sunday morning in the playground of my old primary school. I work on the ‘Brilliant Bangers’ stall, flogging packs of fancy sausages at four pounds a pop to people who have more money than sense.
When I arrive, my co-worker Jeremy is already there. He’s a politics student at the local uni and totally up himself.
‘Afternoon, Mia,’ he says, wearing this trademark smirk. ‘Nice of you to join me.’
‘Oh, shove off, Jezza,’ I mutter, tying on my apron. ‘I’m only a few minutes late.’ I turn my back on him and pounce on a middle-aged couple hovering by the stall. ‘They’re four pounds a pack,’ I say. ‘A bargain.’
‘Oh, we’re just browsing,’ the woman says, taking a step away.
‘No probs. Browse away, absolutely no pressure to buy. It’s just probably worth mentioning you’re not going to get this kind of quality at such a low price anywhere else.’ I turn to the bloke. ‘Here’s a guessing game for you, sir. How much meat do you think is in our sausages? Say, as a percentage.’
He glances at his wife.
‘Tell you what,’ I continue. ‘If you get it right, I’ll give you a pack on the house, any flavour you like.’
Another glance at his wife. She shrugs as if to say ‘why not’.
‘Er, ninety per cent?’ he suggests.
‘Commiserations! Close, but not close enough. It’s one hundred per cent, sir, one hundred per cent pure meat in all our sausages. I don’t blame you for not guessing correctly though, sir, not one bit. You’re not alone. Very few sausages can live up to the quality and taste of Brilliant Bangers – brilliant by name and by nature. Now, you may not have won a free pack, but what I can offer instead is an exclusive deal – three packs for a tenner. That’s a massive saving of over two pounds.’
Behind me I hear Jeremy snort.
‘We don’t really eat all that many sausages,’ the woman says apologetically.
‘Not to worry, just stick them in the freezer. They freeze brilliantly.’
She fingers the clumsily painted pasta necklace hanging round her neck.
‘Let me guess. Grandkids?’ I ask.
‘They’d love our chipolatas,’ I say. ‘Seriously, they go down a storm, even with the pickiest of eaters.’
‘Really?’
‘Yep. Clean plates all round every time. So, what do you say to a couple of packs of those and some classic Cumberland for yourselves? Or perhaps you’d like be a bit more daring and try my personal favourite, the sweet-chilli variety? Anything you fancy.’
By the time I’ve finished with them, I know the names of all five of their grandchildren and they’ve bought twelve packs of sausages.
‘I can’t believe that spiel actually works on people,’ Jeremy says as I shut the cashbox and flash him a triumphant smile.
‘What spiel? I was just chatting.’
‘Whatever. It’s like watching an episode of The Apprentice. And I don’t mean that as a compliment. All that exclusive-deal nonsense. It’s three packs for a tenner as standard.’
‘So? They don’t need to know that, do they? It’s simple business, Jezza.’
‘It’s Jeremy,’ he growls.
‘Do you want a bonus today or not?’
That shuts him up. Our boss, Steve, often slips us an extra twenty if he arrives at the end of our shift to discover we’ve sold all the stock. If that happens today, I’ll be able to pay off Newquay before the end of the month.
At the beginning of August, me, Stella, Mikey and Kimmie are going to Newquay in Cornwall for a week. Apart from school trips it’s the first time the four of us have been away together with no parents or anything. Not that it was easy to persuade them. It took a full week of pestering and promises to get my mum and dad to agree to it; and another two for Kimmie’s parents to get on board. Stella’s mum offered to book the accommodation and flights on her credit card, providing we paid her back in instalments. We’re going to be staying in a caravan right near the beach and I can hardly wait. No parents, no school, no overachieving sisters making me look bad – just me and my three best mates and an entire week of sweet, sweet freedom. Best of all, though, I’ll turn seventeen while we’re there.
It’s almost two thirty by the time I get home. I unlock the front door and drop my backpack on the hallway floor. The house is calm and still. I can see through to the kitchen and garden where yesterday’s lunch has been cleared away. Voices drift from the living room on my left. I follow them, discovering Mum and Grace sitting on the sofa, their backs to me, looking at something on Mum’s laptop.
‘Oh, hi, Mia,’ Mum says, glancing over her shoulder. ‘Did you have fun with Stella?’
I don’t answer. I’m too busy staring at Grace’s baby bump. She’s ditched the hippy-dippy tunic she was wearing yesterday in favour of a stretchy navy and white striped jersey dress. As Kimmie predicted, her bump is OK magazine spread-worthy – so perfectly round it looks almost fake.
‘How about that one?’ Mum says, pointing at the screen. ‘The reviews say it’s very lightweight.’
I take a step closer.
They’re on the Mamas and Papas website, happily browsing rows and rows of identical-looking pushchairs, all of which cost at least five hundred quid.
What the—???
My brain spinning, I back out of the living room and straight into Sam, my forehead bashing into his chin.
‘Shit, sorry,’ he says as I stagger backwards, banging into the radiator. ‘You OK?’
‘Fine,’ I murmur, rubbing my head with my palm.
‘We didn’t meet properly yesterday, did we?’ he says.
That’s one way of putting it, I suppose.
‘I’m Sam.’
‘Mia,’ I reply reluctantly.
He’s posh. Like ‘Prince William’ posh. No wonder Grace is all over him. She’s always had a thing for posh blokes. Dougie was posh too and went to this fancy private school (the brother school to Toft Park) right over the other side of Rushton even though he only lives two streets away from Queen Mary’s.
Sam sticks out his hand for me to shake, which only cements his poshness. His handshake is firm and confident; he’s clearly had practice.
There’s an awkward pause.
‘I really like your top,’ he says eventually.
‘Oh, right. Thanks,’ I say, rolling my eyes slightly. I’m still in my ‘It’s All About Mia’ T-shirt from yesterday. It smells of sleep and sausages and the body spray Stella douses herself in.
Another pause, equally awkward.
‘So, is it?’ he asks.
‘Is it what?’
‘All about Mia?’ he says, gesturing at the words on my chest.
‘Oh, right. No. I wish.’
I fold my arms, not enjoying the fact we’re having a conversation about what’s written across my tits, even though Sam’s eye line is at an entirely respectable level.
‘It’s supposed to be ironic,’ I add.
‘Ironic how?’
‘Er, because it’s never about me.’
He tilts his head to one side. ‘It’s not?’
‘Have you met my sisters?’
He smiles. He has good teeth. I bet he had braces when he was younger. They’re those kind of teeth – artificially straight. Up close his hair is more auburn than full-on ginger and his arms and face are covered with a fine sprinkling of light brown freckles that almost look like they’ve been drawn on individually with an extra-fine felt-tip pen. He’s wearing a pair of black-rimmed glasses, the sort that celebrities stick on to make themselves look more intelligent, only in Sam’s case I suspect he probably has a prescription. His outfit is standard posh-boy summer uniform – polo shirt, chino shorts and Havaianas.
I hear the toilet flush and a few seconds later Dad emerges from the downstairs loo.
‘Hi, sweetheart,’ he says, dropping a kiss on the top of my head. ‘Good time at Stella’s?’
Why is everyone pretending stuff is normal?
Dad turns to Sam. ‘Ready to go?’
Go where?
‘Yep,’ Sam replies. ‘Let me just say goodbye to Grace. Excuse me, Mia.’
He smiles and squeezes past me to go into the living room. God, he even smells clean-cut (signature scent: fresh laundry, peppermint and privilege).
‘Where are you going?’ I ask Dad.
‘Just down to The Bell to watch the match. Don’t worry, we’ll be back in time for Soprano’s.’
‘Soprano’s?’
Soprano’s is a cheap and cheerful Italian restaurant on the high street. It’s where we go for family celebrations – birthdays and anniversaries and exam results.
Before Dad can answer me, Sam returns from the living room. There’s a sticky pink lip-balm stain on his left cheek.
Dad unlocks the door. ‘Bye, sweetheart,’ he says, heading out into the front garden.
‘See you later, Mia,’ Sam adds, following him.
The door falls shut behind them. I can hear Mum and Grace still murmuring together in the living room. I lean against the radiator. What the hell is going on?
I find Audrey in our bedroom, lying on her yoga mat with her eyes closed. I’m about to ask her what’s going on when something fluffy with claws runs over my foot.
I scream and leap onto my bed.
‘Shush!’ Audrey says, opening her eyes. ‘You’ll scare her.’ She rolls onto her stomach. ‘Beyoncé,’ she calls under her bed. ‘It’s OK, baby, come on out. It’s only Mia.’
‘I wish you wouldn’t bring that animal up here,’ I say, climbing down off the bed. ‘She stinks the place out.’
‘No she doesn’t,’ Audrey said, wriggling out from under her bed with her guinea pig in her arms. ‘She smells lovely, don’t you, baby?’ She buries her head in Beyoncé’s fur and makes a load of kissy noises.
I pull a face and plonk myself in the desk chair, wheeling it with my feet into the centre of the room. ‘Never mind Beyoncé,’ I say. ‘What the flip is going on, Audrey?’
‘How do you mean?’ Audrey asks as she reaches for a cotton bud from my open makeup bag on our shared desk/dressing table and proceeds to clean the goop from Beyoncé’s permanently gluey right eye.
‘How do you think I mean?’ I ask. ‘Everyone’s going around acting like Grace being up the duff is no big deal. Do you know what Mum and Grace are doing right now? They’re downstairs cooing over pushchairs, Auds. Pushchairs! And Dad just took Sam down the pub and was acting all matey with him. What happened to them being angry?’
‘I don’t know. They must have just got over it.’
‘Got over it? Got over it? Audrey, you don’t just “get over” the fact your teenage daughter has a big fat bun in the oven. That’s not how it works. I mean, Grace has totally ruined her life!’
‘What makes you say that?’ Audrey asks, looking up from Beyoncé’s gammy eye. She looks genuinely interested in my answer.
‘Duh. Of course she’s ruined her life. Babies wreck everything, everybody knows that.’
‘Having Grace at seventeen didn’t ruin Mum’s life,’ Audrey points out.
‘That’s different. Mum was at catering college when she got pregnant. Grace is meant to be going to like the most famous university in the world!’
I wonder what’s going to happen with that. As far as I know, people don’t take babies to uni with them. Which means Grace is going to have to stay here. At least maybe now Mum and Dad will get their fingers out and build that extension. After all, the baby is going to have to go somewhere. Oh God, what if they really can’t afford it and make me and Audrey swap rooms with Grace and the baby? I wouldn’t put it past them. We’ll have to sleep in bunk beds if we share Grace’s old room, and put all our stuff in storage. I shudder and push myself out of the chair into standing position.
‘Where are you going?’ Audrey asks.
‘To get to the bottom of this,’ I reply.
I march downstairs. Mum is in the kitchen, making tea.
‘Want one?’ she asks, waggling the box of tea bags at me.
‘No thanks,’ I reply, sitting down at one of the breakfast-bar stools.
She takes out two mugs, setting them down on the counter. I reach for the biscuit tin.
‘Don’t ruin your appetite,’ she says. ‘We’ve got an early dinner reservation.’
Her voice is calm and bright. It’s like yesterday didn’t even happen.
I take a chocolate bourbon from the tin anyway, prising apart the two pieces of biscuit and biting off the chocolate cream with my teeth.
‘About dinner,’ I say. ‘Since when did an unplanned pregnancy become something you celebrate over spaghetti carbonara and a tiramisu?’
Mum sighs. ‘Not now, Mia.’
‘It’s just that if I came home one day and announced I was pregnant, you’d go mental. You’d probably never let me leave the house again. You certainly wouldn’t be booking a table at Soprano’s.’
‘It would be a totally different situation, Mia. You’re sixteen.’
‘Nearly seventeen. And is it totally different?’ I ask, leaning forward. ‘I mean, is it, Mum? Really?’
Mum folds her arms. ‘I think we both know the answer to that, don’t you?’
‘Whatever,’ I say, prodding at the fruit in the fruit bowl. The bananas have black speckles all over them and feel mushy to the touch.
‘The fact is,’ Mum says, ‘Grace is a nineteen-year-old woman. And no, perhaps it’s not ideal timing, but she and Sam have thought all of this through very carefully, and as loving parents, your dad and I are going to support them one hundred per cent.’
‘Of course you are,’ I mutter. ‘Anything for Amazing Grace.’
Mum pours hot water from the kettle into the assembled mugs. Some of it splashes on her hand, making her swear under her breath.
‘What do you want from me, Mia?’ she asks, running her hand under the cold-water tap. ‘Do you want me to ground Grace? Send her to her room? Take away her pocket money? She’s an adult now, remember. And guess what, you’re not.’
‘Gosh, really?’ I say, with a mock-gasp. ‘Oh my God, I had no idea. I guess that explains why you treat me like a five-year-old half the time.’
Mum turns off the tap and glares at me. In addition to whining, she also hates sarcasm, especially when it’s coming out of my mouth. She appears to hesitate for a moment before falling back on her most common refrain (at least it is where I’m concerned):
‘Grow up, Mia.’