Chapter 2.16 #2
Pine scrunched her eyes shut, pinching the bridge of her nose. ‘Friday, you retire. Please try to stay out of trouble till then.’
Roberta just grinned.
Davey’s crappy old Polo growled along Rubislaw Den, blending in with the collection of fancy granite houses, villas, and mansions like a hairy wart on a pornstar’s knob.
His car radio filled the brittle silence with some cheery, cheesy, poptastic nonsense, that was still better than listening to the git-faced tosser apologise for the umpteenth time.
‘Sarah knows to feed the crows,
With chocolate and pistachios,
Every time the north wind blows . . .’
Roberta thumped back in her seat, arms folded tight, glaring out the passenger window. Radiating Chernobyl levels of radioactive sulkiness.
Davey turned onto her street, those stupid rattan gloves at ten-to-two.
‘And sweet Francesca, In her Ford Fiesta,
She hotwired a desire,
To own an orchestra . . .’
He took a deep breath and pulled his shoulders up to his ears, as if the motion was physically painful. Probably working himself up to say something stupid.
‘Cos Jane’s insane in the pouring rain,
She ain’t been the same,
Since she swam in champagne . . .’
He pulled up outside Roberta’s house. ‘Look . . .’
The radio idiots launched into their big chorus:
‘Sing it loud, and let them hear,
All the—’
Davey killed the engine. ‘I’m sorry, OK? I . . . It’s not easy, we—’
‘Don’t.’ She opened her door. ‘You’re a crawly bum-licking bastard, Davey McLeod. Feel free to go fuck yourself.’
‘It’s just . . .’
She struggled her way out into the gloomy afternoon.
Didn’t stop him whining, though. ‘I lost it all, OK? All of it. Took my pension lump-sum and invested the lot in high-momentum small-cap growth stocks on the US market.’ A grunt. ‘Was making a decent return . . . then Trump happened.’
Roberta turned and scowled back into the car as Davey wriggled in the driver’s seat.
‘Stock market crashes. We sell; get the hell out of there. Then it’s up again, so we buy, you know?
Trying to recoup some of our losses . . .
And it crashes again. And again. And again.
Up, down, up, down . . .’ Davey buried his head in his stupid driving-gloved hands.
‘He’s standing in the sodding Oval Office boasting about his mates making billions, and we’re left with nothing.
Nothing!’ Davey’s shoulders curled inwards, back hunching.
‘AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!’
Tough.
She straightened up and slammed the car door.
Turned on her heel and hobbled away.
Leaving him to stew in his own misery.
Roberta sat at the breakfast bar, with a proper decent mug of tea and a chocolate biscuit, giving The Eternal Fall Of Gravity’s Children another go. Because, according to Jasmine’s mate who worked the Sci-Fi section at Waterstones, there was a lot of shagging in it.
Maybe that’s why Tufty gave it to her?
Dirty wee monkey that he was.
And speak of the pervert . . .
Ding-buzz.
TUFTY:
Have done your Digital Deep Dive [fnarrrrr . . .]
Results available for collection this evening.
19:00
My Place.
Bring crisps and disps or chips and dips.
Either is good!
Pfff . . .
Not like it mattered anymore.
Davey could take his pish-flavoured divorce case, slather it in Ralgex, and cram it up his hoop. Investigating that kind of thing was beneath her anyway.
Mind you: knowledge was power.
And sometimes power meant revenge.
She plonked the novel down, and replied to the wee loon:
Just text it to me.
Lazy wee shite that he was.
SEND.
And back to spaceships and naked aliens . . .
Ding-buzz.
Negative.
Dips and chips or disps and crisps.
19:00
Come alone and tell no one!
And wear a hat.
Secret password is “Fumplebuttocks”!
The boy was an idiot.
She stuck two fingers up to the screen and took her book through to the living room instead, leaving her phone behind.
That would teach him.
Kurgannoor the Great unleashed her multitudinous breasts and faced the betentacled Princess Gravestreech of the Octillian Clan, feeling the familiar warmth spreading deep within as the princess slithered from her glistening underslip and said, ‘Oh for goodness sake, not again!’
‘Gffffnnnaaagh . . .!’ Roberta surfaced on the living room’s comfiest couch, arms and legs flailing as the antique golf club went in for another poke. ‘Gerroff . . . ’Wake. ’mwake . . .’ Blinking in the golden, early-evening light.
Susan perpetrated poke number three. ‘Have you been hitting the Glenfeòrag again?’ She was wearing her work suit, Genghis Khat scampering around her slippered feet – still attached to his lead – while Naomi and Jasmine peered in through the open door.
Both were carrying a pair of flat, square, cardboard boxes, each about the size of a paving slab. Jasmine in her bookseller’s black, while Pirate Naomi had developed an eyepatch. Which she pushed sideways to peer at them. ‘Arrrrrrrrr, me hearties, is Mummy Steel blootered on cheap grog and opium?’
‘No.’ Roberta sat upright and The Eternal Fall Of Gravity’s Children tumbled to the floor. ‘Fell asleep. Reading.’ Launching into a jaw-cracker of a yawn that ended with a little shuddery stretch and a burp. ‘Time is it?’
‘Six. So you better get cleaned up.’ Susan unclipped Genghis’s lead and the wee lad charged over, tail going crazy, hunkering down in excitement.
Then jumping into Roberta’s lap, tongue out, ready to subject her to The Lickening.
Which was not happening, because he spent far too much time cleaning his own undercarriage with it.
Susan slipped the ancient golf club back into its antique bag, then turned and bustled from the room. ‘I picked up some tortilla chips and one of those four-different-dips things, and some hummus. Everyone loves hummus.’
She bustled back in again, without her jacket. ‘Come on: chop, chop! Don’t want to be late.’ Then bustled out once more. ‘Honestly you’re as bad as the kids!’
Both of whom had disappeared.
Pfff . . .
Roberta fended off another assault from Genghis’s tongue. ‘Aye, all right, I love you too.’ Popping him on the floor and grabbing the fallen book, before limping after Susan. ‘Eh? What? Hummus? What?’
A drift of kids’ boots and jackets were strewn about the hall, along with hessian shopping bags and wine carriers. The whole place smelling of hot onions-and-peppers.
Susan hung up Genghis’s lead. ‘I didn’t know what they’d like, so I got you a Crémant De Loire – because I’m really over prosecco, aren’t you? – and a Chenin Blanc just in case.’ Clapping her hands, like a bossy schoolteacher. ‘Come on: upstairs, change, back here in five for dinner.’
Naomi must’ve been earwigging, because her voice brayed down the stairs. ‘Blisterin’ barnacles! Hop to it, you salty seadogs: we’s having pizza!’
What?
Roberta stood there, blinking at the chaos. ‘Am I still asleep or something?’
‘Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr . . .!’
‘Oh, and Tufty called: said “Don’t forget to wear a hat.”’
Nope, that didn’t help, either.
Susan rolled her eyes. ‘You’re going to his game tonight?
’ A tut. ‘Honestly, you’d forget your own head if it didn’t have a massive metal plate in it.
’ She gave Roberta a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek.
‘I think it’s great you’re making the effort and meeting new friends!
’ Then wiped the lipstick mark off Roberta’s skin with a thumb.
‘Being cooped up in here all day isn’t good for you: making you round-the-twisty.
’ A grimace buckled Susan’s face. ‘Oooh, now I really must go wee.’
And away she scuttled, leaving Roberta alone and adrift in the hallway.
They were all mad . . .
Naomi tore into a slice of ham-and-mushroom, chewing as she reached for the tomato sauce. ‘And I’ve been promoted to Pirate Number Three, on account of Linda Fullerton getting tonsillitis!’ Babbling away between mouthfuls.
Susan sat on the other side of the breakfast bar – toying with her Fiorentina, extra olives, and frowning at Roberta as if the pizzeria had added bogies instead. A big sigh. ‘Oh, Robbie . . .’
‘Don’t care.’ Giardiniera with prosciutto, all vegetably and delicious. ‘I’m no’ being guilt-tripped, manipulated, or tricked into playing make-believe with a bunch of pluke-faced pillocks.’
‘But you need a hobby.’
‘Aye, like another hole in the head.’
Jasmine polished off her second slice of Calabrian Feast. ‘Did I tell you we’re getting an author visit, Saturday? M.D. Harris. How cool is that?’
Another sigh. ‘But, Robbie . . .’
‘Pirates of Penzance is cooler.’ Naomi Jackson Pollocked her pizza with ketchup, singing away:
‘Here’s your crowbar and your centrebit,
Your thing-umy-whatsit – la, la, la-la, thing.’
Valiantly carrying on, even though she clearly had sod-all idea what the actual words were.
Roberta helped herself to an un-ketchuped bit.
‘Hey!’
‘You snoozed, you losed.’ Grinning at Susan. ‘It’ll be a cold day in Satan’s Y-fronts, before I fanny about pretending to be a sodding wizard.’ Holding a hand up to forestall further protests. ‘Never going to happen.’