Jess opened her mouth to try and protest, but her mum had only paused for breath, and dived back in.
‘So it was Fred’s idea to go to the festival – he’s the one who’s got the tickets – and you didn’t have the guts to tell me.’
‘We were all going!’ shouted Jess. ‘Loads of us! OK, it was Fred’s idea in the first place. But the whole gang was involved: Flora, Jodie . . .’ For an instant Jess was so panicked, her mind went blank and she couldn’t remember the names of any of her friends. So she invented some. ‘Gloria, Toby, Hamish, Max, Cleo . . . Ben J, Ben S, Ben . . . X –’
‘I’ve never heard of any of these people!’ yelled her mum. ‘For all I know they could be drug dealers or something! Why do you have to sneak around doing things behind my back all the time? I never know what’s going on and you never come clean!’
‘You’re the one who never comes clean!’ exploded Jess. ‘I’ve been asking you for years why you and Dad split up and I never get a straight answer!’
Granny, who had been watching the shouting match like a tennis umpire, suddenly put her finger up and, in the brief silence which followed, she said, ‘I just want to remind you, Madeleine, that you were young and foolish once – not that I’m saying Jess is foolish, mind.’
Dear Granny! Jess made immediate plans to name her first child after her. Not ‘Granny’ obviously – that would be something of a social handicap. But Granny’s first name, Valerie, would surely come back into fashion sooner or later.
Jess’s mother gave Granny an exasperated glance, and shot a last ferocious glare at Jess.
‘I’m certainly not going to waste the rest of the day bickering. Go upstairs and finish your packing, Jess. We all need an early night.’
It seemed as if Jess would have to abandon her plans for a secret meeting with Fred at seven o’clock by the park gates. She went up to her room and sent him a text.
AS YOU’LL HAVE GATHERED, MUM ASCENDED THE NEAREST WALL. SORRY. NO HOPE OF GETTING OUT TONIGHT. BE GOOD WHILE I’M AWAY, AND FOR GOODNESS’ SAKE TEXT ME DAILY.
Instantly the reply came back.
MY HEART HAS BROKEN WITH A SICKENING CRACK AUDIBLE IN ICELAND. I’LL SELL THE RIVERDENE TICKETS AND BUY LOADS OF VIOLENT DVDS INSTEAD. WRITE ME A LETTER NOW AND THEN, OK? LUCKILY I WON’T HAVE TO REPLY AS YOU WON’T HAVE A FIXED ADDRESS.
Jess felt slightly comforted by the thought of writing Fred letters. She started one straightaway.
Dear Fred,
This is the first of a series of letters describing the horrors of travel in the 21st century. I am upstairs in my tragic little bedroom, packing. I’m only packing black clothes, of course. I shall be in mourning throughout this doomed trip. I shall pose picturesquely against haunted ruins, at sunset, with ravens in my hair, utterly deranged and occasionally muttering, ‘Fred . . . Fred . . .’
It’s a shame you haven’t got a slightly more tragic name. I mean – Fred. Not much grandeur there. I think I shall rename you. How about Archibald? Or would you prefer Hamlet? Hamlet Parsons – it has a certain ring.
I’m bracing myself for an early start. My mum has OD’d on history guidebooks and I dread what’s in store: ‘Jess, are you listening? Here is the stone where King Egbert the Hard-boiled was mashed up with mayonnaise by the Vikings in the year 809. And this is the tower where St Kylie received the Sacred Acne. In this garden Prince Flatulent proposed to Lady Isabel Ginger-Niblets in 1678. And this flower commemorates their love, as well as being a cure for severe halitosis. It’s called the lesser spotted stinkweed. Rub some on your gums and feel it tingle!’
So, my dear Hamlet, tomorrow morning I shall be wrenched away from the divine city where you live. I shall be dragged screaming down country lanes infested with thundering herds of squirrels and things.
But you – you will be left here undefended against evil. Beautiful girls will pass you in the street, giving you saucy sidelong glances. They will be playing tennis gracefully whenever you walk in the park, flashing their bronzed elbows seductively in the sunshine. How will you ever hold out?
There was one local girl in particular that Jess was worried about. Flora, of course. She and Fred might not need the romantic setting of a campfire at a festival. They might just bump into each other in the High Street and go for a coffee, and one thing might lead to another.
Eventually Jess prayed briefly for God to smite all the local girls with boils, and make Flora smell like a rubbish bin full of rotting cabbage – just for the duration of Jess’s holiday. Then she went back to her packing.