Kept (7 page)

‘Arielle!’ I scream.

Could this day get any worse, but I do feel ashamed when I
clock her shocked face. My name isn’t that hard to pronounce though; I am not a
bloody mermaid. And aren’t people called Alice supposed to be all twin sets,
pearls and, well, Alice bands? Who is she trying to kid? She looks sixty and
past it in her ridiculous get-up.

I’m about to start raging – tears and tantrums – when a
familiar face looms behind Alice with a smirk on his face. ‘Yep, you can
certainly tell Arielle is home,’ he cackles at me, as my mouth stops mid-scream
to gape in surprise.

Suddenly, I’m very glad to be back. It’s only Obélix stood
there!

Obélix was my childhood best friend, the one who wanted to
be Michael Jackson, and who I lost touch with when I moved to London. Because
we were the same age and only children, instinctively we teamed up against the
Penrose boys, Noah and Peter, who were my other next-door neighbours.

Out of the Penrose boys, Noah was all right; in fact, Noah
was bloody perfect. Six years older than us made him instantly cool, which is
more than could be said for Peter who was closer to our age but a complete
mummy’s boy. Needless to say, I had a huge un-spoken crush on Noah, but it was
difficult not to swoon over him when by the age of twelve he had already
perfected all the charms of a gentleman ten years his senior. Charms Peter
lacked. Which left Obélix. I could hardly have had a crush on
Ob
, could I?

Peter was what you would call a sensitive child. Later he
went on to study medicine, specialising in paediatrics, probably because he was
a weedy child prone to hay fever and allergies, scared of everything, making
him a perfect target. Later he grew out of this, bulked up a bit and acquired a
tan. Then he bulked out some more and turned out quite well actually, but I
only know this last part from my mother as I fell out with the Penrose boys
when I was sixteen. Saying that, I do admit I had found Peter quite cute then –
blameable on attending a girls-only boarding school – but I was
never
desperate enough to fancy Obélix.

I didn’t care though about the loss of the Penrose boys,
well the loss of Peter anyway, because I had Obélix. Sweet, dependable Obélix. It
isn’t his real name; that’s something that always escapes me since
no one
calls him that, not even his
parents. It stems from the
Astérix
books which he loved as a child. He read them in the original French as well –
show-off. Fittingly he was a little plump as a child, with reddish-brown hair
like his hero.

‘Obélix!’ I yell, pushing Alice out of the way to get to
him. He looks just like I remember him, even more like his namesake though in a
broad, not fat sense. ‘How are you?’ I squeal.

‘No letters, no phone calls, no e-mails or texts,’ he
chastises me, pulling me into a big hug with a quick roll of his eyes and a
dramatic sniff. ‘It’s a good job I bumped into your dad who informed me he was
heading to the station to get you or I’d have no doubt missed you again. Where
have you been, Fatty?’

I laugh, I’m so happy to see him, even with his stupid
nickname for me. It’s not even going to blip on my angry radar like it used to
– it’s an old habit, not an insult.

As I pull away from his hug to answer him, taking in a whiff
of possibly cow dung, it dawns on me that Obélix is a true friend, one who
understands it’s acceptable to drop off the face of the Earth if it helps you
out, one who will still be there for you without comment when you finally
return. Like now.
   

‘London,’ I trill, pleased he understands instantly why I
don’t want to get into the rigours of anything else just yet. That he isn’t
stroppy enough to ruin this. ‘Where have
you
been?’ I fire back.

‘Ah, yes,’ he says in mock tones reminiscent of our old
piano teacher – the one who hated London and told us so once or twice (every
minute, every lesson). ‘Lon-don.’

He drawls that exactly like she used to – she being Mrs Webb
– in a flat two-syllable snarl that transports me back to fits of giggles,
churlish costumes “appropriate” for piano lessons and forced recitals for the
relatives. What our mothers were thinking allowing us to take piano together I
do not know. Perhaps they thought we’d stick it out and encourage one another.
If only they knew.

‘Big City girl, aren’t you now?’ he asks, fetching me back
to here.

‘Well–’

‘Oh yes. Your parents have told me all about it seeing as
you’ve never bothered to keep in touch with your oldest and dearest friend,
Fatty. I’ve heard all about how you’re a shoo-in for director!
Congratulations!’

‘Not quite, Ob,’ I mutter sheepishly.

‘And so modest!’ Now I feel even worse about my slight...
massive fabrications. ‘You have grown up! I remember the spoilt teenager who
couldn’t wait to lord her GCSE results over mine.’

‘Well, they were better than yours Ob.’

‘But not as good as my A-Level results!’

I giggle at that.
 
It’s funny how I forget there are some good memories from here. But,
this is far too serious for my liking, so I push him into the umbrella stand,
causing a scuffle to break out between us.

 
‘What on Earth are
you screeching at?’ Mum interrupts, barrelling through from the kitchen and
into the hallway to catch us play fighting. I’m flat on my back where Ob has me
pinned down, teasingly tickling me. An umbrella is open and the rug has slid
across the floor. Oops.

‘Sorry, Mrs L,’ Obélix says at once, bouncing to his feet to
greet my mother. ‘Looking wonderful as always.’

‘Obélix dear, how lovely to see you.’ Mum fusses over him,
all thoughts of chaos out of her head.

She
loves
Obélix
and she especially loves his compliments. I have to admit though, my mum looks
good for her age. She’d easily be put as
Ten
Years Younger
without having the make-over first. With gorgeous
silvery-blonde hair, we share the same face shape but not features. I hope I’m
as wrinkle-free when I reach her age.

‘How’s veterinary life?’ she continues.

A-ha! That explains the cow dung. Obélix had been training
to be a vet the last time I had spoken to him a few years ago. No doubt Mum has
informed me of his career progression but I can’t recall her doing so. Whenever
I heard the word “home” on the phone I’d tend to blank out.

‘Ooh,’ I pipe up from my position on the floor where I’m
still sprawled out. ‘Congrats! Do tell all how much fun you’re having sticking
your hand up cows’
jacksies
?

‘Arielle!’ That’s Mum. ‘Why do you always have to be so
unpleasant to the poor boy?’

Ob laughs, a deep laugh that warms me up from the inside
out. ‘It’s fine Mrs L. I’m used to it.’

‘Still,’ she simpers. ‘Tell you what, would you like to join
us for dinner tonight, Obélix dear?’

For Mum a dinner invitation can solve any of the world’s
wrongs and make them right. I mean, obviously if someone had sat down Saddam
Hussein or Osama Bin Laden with my mother and her cooking then none of that
Middle East malarkey would have happened. Obviously.

‘No can do, I’m afraid, Mrs L, but thanks all the same.’

He even puts on a pained face, like he’s genuinely
distraught at missing out on Mum’s cooking. Probably his real expression
considering
his
mum’s cooking. He
always had two Sunday dinners when we were home for the holidays, the first
next-door, then here. No wonder he was a podgy child. But, with his mum’s
pancake Yorkshire puddings and lumpy gravy we never minded him. He’s family.

‘Shame.’ She tuts like she’s missed out on something major
instead of just Obélix’s company. ‘Well, send my love to your parents. I keep
meaning to pop around, but I keep forgetting to.’

‘Senile,’ I mutter.

‘And I’ll see you soon, dear.’ She pauses to glare at me,
then wanders back to the kitchen where I’m sure ghastly Alice is waiting for
her. Alice had scampered off as soon as I dived towards Ob. I dread to meet her
hubby Frank later on. Any man who lets his wife dress like Alice evidently has
a screw loose. I imagine he will be wearing a Hawaiian shirt and chewing on a
cigar. I suspect he’ll think this is a “cool” look.

‘Bye, Mrs L,’ Obélix calls after her. ‘Lovely to see you, as
always.’

Such. A. Brown-noser.

‘Meanie.’ I pout. ‘Why aren’t you saving me from the olds?’

‘Got patients to see, Fatty,’ he explains. ‘How did you term
it? Oh yeah, I need to go stick my hand up cows’
jacksies
.
Besides, it means you can have seconds and become even more obese.’

I glare at him, still from my position on the floor, even
though I find it adorable that he called his animals “patients”. I wonder if he
names them?

‘I’ll tell you what though, Arielle. Pub tonight? Say half
nine? I should be clean of cow dung by then and then you can tell me all about
your glam London life over some pints.’

‘Half nine it is then.’ I’m thrilled I do have a friend
here, thrilled that Ob and I have gone back to being how we used to be – easy
friends with none of the resentment and moods we had in our late teenage years.
‘But only if you buy the pints to make up for abandoning me at dinner.’

Well, it’s not as if I have any money to buy them with, and
I hardly want to alert parental suspicion just yet asking for hand-outs,
especially with Frank and Alice in attendance at Chez Lockley.
  

‘I will, but only because when have you ever bought a drink
in your life?’

 
That’s not a
question. ‘It goes against your public school ethos.’ I smile sweetly. ‘See you
tonight.’

He opens the front door to leave, but pauses to turn back to
me. ‘You know, it’s really nice to see you, Fatty. I’ve missed you.’

Standing up, I squint at him. He’s about a foot taller than
me, even in heels. I remember how this used to make me feel deliciously girly,
even when we were doing boy stuff.

‘Be gone with you!’ I tut, pushing him out of the door like
I can’t stand him, all in the spirit of childhood banter. ‘Go and play with
some cow’s jiggly bits,’ I order, ‘and leave me alone seeing as I have to put
up with you tonight.’

I feel too emotionally fraught to admit I’ve missed him too,
too afraid I will break down and open up the floodgates of everything else. For
now, this has to be kept light.

He nods like he understands, treating me to an endearing
wink. I shut the door smiling after watching him get into his even-more-battered-than-Bertha
Land Rover. He’s whistling to himself in his jolly, up-beat way so I know he’s
pleased to see me. The feeling is mutual, though I do feel ashamed I never
bothered to keep in touch with him. I realise now he is the sweetest, loveliest
man I know, when he’s not being obnoxious… Apart from Piers, that is.

But since I’m currently viewing Piers in a negative light,
Ob takes the crown.
 
Strangely it hits me
that it feels good to be here. I doubt the feeling will last very long.

‘Has Obélix gone, dear?’

‘Yep.’

I steal a carrot baton off her, narrowly missing my fingers
getting chopped. I assume she’s preparing tonight’s dinner as the rabbits don’t
usually get prepped food to this extent. Saying that, I’m not sure if the
rabbits are still with us. It’s been two years since I was last home; it would
have been longer if I had been able to get away with it and circumstances were
not like they are.

‘Did you have a nice little catch-up? You know,’ she
continues, ignoring my grimaces, a clear plea for her to leave me alone, ‘you
haven’t seen Obélix in
years
! Fancy
that!’

‘Fancy.’

I’m aware it has been ages,
painfully
aware given how nice he’s just been to me. I think the
last time we met was for a quick polite drink at the local just after my
graduation, and it’s been years since we’ve been
proper
friends. My fault, of course. We drifted apart because I
wanted nothing to do with anyone during the summer I waited for GCSE results.
Given we attended separate boarding schools and were pushed into CV-boosting
activities in A-Level holiday-time it made it easy to avoid him. He then went
to Cambridge to study veterinary science and I headed up to Warwick. I just
wanted to escape and once I met Piers I never once thought of coming back here.
I never even longed for my innocent childhood years like some people tend to.
Mine weren’t very innocent, you see.

‘Just think Arielle.’ She is oblivious to my pained face as
I take a trip down bad memory lane. ‘If you hadn’t have met Piers you could
have been married to Obélix by now! He’s ever so fond of you, you know. He
always asks how you are when he sees me.’

‘Mother,’ I warningly say.

Now
I recall.
Obélix is a great source of contention in the house – I can’t believe I have
forgotten this. The parentals wrongly assumed he was the reason I became so
depressed that GCSE summer, possibly because he broke my heart they ruminated
so he could concentrate on his veterinary studies.

Obélix wanted to be a vet stemming from the time we saw one
tending to an injured pony on the New Forest heath. It’s a very cute tale of
Obélix’s and it would help him with the ladies if he told it, which I doubt he
does. He visited the pony every day until it was finally fully better, causing
him to proclaim to an unimpressed me that the vet was far better than Michael
Jackson. Gone were the pop star ambitions of Obélix Thomas, hello horses! He
even used to steal my My Little Ponies to play vet with them. Nobody found this
strange. I suspect they overlooked this as it was preferable to us blurting out
Michael Jackson over and over again.

The parentals were wrong though –
Obélix didn’t break my heart – I reiterate,
brother and sister
. It had been far
safer for them to assume that though than let them discover the truth, even
though it remains their greatest dream – ditto for his ’rents – that the two of
us “rekindle” our love and get married. Yuck.

‘I’m just saying, Arielle! You could do far worse than
Obélix. You’ve always been far too mean to that boy. You’ll regret it when you
lose him and he settles down with someone else.’ Her cheeks have flushed pink
during her staunch defence of Mr Thomas.

‘I have Piers,’ I mutter darkly, annoyed I have to mention
his name in defence. ‘Obélix and I are
just
friends
and always will be
just
friends
. I will be very happy for Obélix when he gets married,’ I state
stiffly, not through jealousy of Ob marrying someone that’s not me, but because
Obélix will probably get married and I’ll remain alone and miserable. I’ll
become “poor Aunt Arielle” to his children – still single, still living at
home, not even capable of getting a job flipping burgers.

She pauses for some reason, studying me carefully. ‘How is
Piers?’

I can detect a hint of something in her voice but can’t
quite place it. She’s probably considering whether she can sabotage our
relationship (well she doesn’t know we’re over) so she can convince me to hook
up with Saint Obélix. Either that or she’s deciding whether she can push the
marriage and babies conversation. If only she knew “tick tock, you career
girls” doesn’t actually apply to me: I have no career to put forward over
children, let alone anyone to have children with.

‘Piers is fine, same as always. Thank you for asking,’ I
politely answer.

‘It’s just that–’

She breaks off as Alice enters the kitchen. Thank goodness.
I’m actually so pleased to see her, I could kiss the badly-dressed piece of
mutton. She has unknowingly stopped me from becoming a lamb to the slaughter…
for the time being. I know this conversation is far from being over because,
whereas it is likely I could have avoided it this weekend, I’m here forever,
aren’t I?
 

‘Don’t stop on my account!’ Alice shoots us an expectant
look that we
certainly
shouldn’t stop
on her account. ‘I just love hearing other people’s news. It’s what I get from
being a hairdresser!’

Words fail me at this moment.

‘We were just talking about Arielle’s love life, Alice,’ my
mother tells her, shooting me a “be nice” look.

I don’t even know Alice and I certainly don’t want to tell her
my news considering my reluctance to tell the parentals. I don’t fancy being a
future topic of discussion between Alice and her clients, the word being spread
all over Britain about how much of a reject, loser and failure I am.
  

‘Ooh, yes!’ She sounds far too excited for my liking. ‘I
heard you tell that dishy vet you’ll see him at the pub tonight!’

I swear, she almost claps her hands together in glee. Mum
shoots me a triumphant look like I’m confirming her expectation that one day
Obélix and I will get married.

‘Obélix is like my brother,’ I pointedly remark for Mum’s
benefit more than Alice’s. ‘We will
never
be together because he’s not my type. Oh, and he’s gay. Now, if you’ll excuse
me,’ I icily add, ignoring Alice’s gasps of scandal, ‘I’ll go and set the table
for dinner.’

I speed off into the dining room but I can still hear
Alice’s voice. Loud-mouthed cow. ‘Ooh,
Gilly
,’ she’s
saying. ‘Fancy that nice young vet liking
men
,
such a waste. He looked perfect with your Arielle too.’

Christ, what a common troll. How can my mother be friends
with her?

I don’t hear her reply though, but I know Mum knows Obélix
isn’t gay. She does seem to know
something
though. Mother’s intuition or something else? I can’t wait to flee to the
safety of the pub but first I have to get through dinner.

My parents are lovely people. Both in their early 60s, Mum
is retired and Dad still works part-time at his consultancy company based in
nearby Southampton. They are nice, respectable and hard-working people who have
gone far in life. I know I will never come close to achieving their standard.

So, it completely astounds me to learn Alice and Frank, who
they met on a wine-tasting holiday, who they are joining on a Caribbean cruise
in a few weeks’ time – Frank and Alice who they’ve always described with such
hilarity
– well it surprises me to learn
that they are like this. By which I mean loud, crass and with the most
appalling taste in clothes and accessories I’ve ever seen on anyone allowed to
choose their own apparel. This includes Piers pre-me, his brother Giles, and
Giles’ daughter, the precocious six-year-old Annabelle who, in
Bramley-tradition, has been allowed free reign over her clothing.
Unsurprisingly Annabelle always looks like an exploded palette of paint
but she’s
six
. I’m not entirely sure what Alice and Frank’s excuses are.

If I thought Alice was bad, Frank is worse. In fact, he’s
putting me off my dinner just staring at him. They are the complete opposite to
my demure parents. They look brash, well-weathered – my parents are soft,
respectable
.

‘Everything OK there?’

Despite them always ignoring my moods when I last lived
here, it seems I cannot be left to eat in silence. Why can’t they chat to
ghastly Frank and Alice?

‘Just tired.’ I manage a weak smile.

‘Oh yes,’ Frank cuts across. ‘Ginny and Quin have told us
how you’re such a high flyer in London! You must be, not to ever come and visit
your poor parents,’ he adds.

‘Frank!’ Alice scolds. ‘Leave poor Arielle alone. She’s a
career woman. You take no notice of him dear.’ She leans over and pats me on
the hand. ‘Now, Quin. What were you saying about rimming?’

Woah. Hold up. What was that? Did Alice really just say
rimming
? Surely she said swimming?
Gyming, maybe? Does she think “gyming” makes her down with the kids? And
Quin
? Dad’s name is Quentin!

‘Oh yes,’
Quin
conspires, leaning in close. ‘Rimming is all the rage in the New Forest at the
moment.’

He doesn’t even lower
his voice.
‘What?’ I splutter.

How can my dad,
my dad
of all people
, know about rimming?
I’m astounded, I’m mortified, and I’m everything in-between. I have to be
imagining this – have sex on the brain – or maybe this is one of those twisted
bad dreams you daren’t confess to anyone? I mean, there’s company present so
they can’t really be talking about this can they? In fact, I’m certain now I
think about it, Dad must have said
riding
is all the rage in the New Forest. On horses, that is. Oh. Disturbing thoughts
again. Vomit.

‘Well, with the nudist resort in the Forest, it was to be
expected sooner or later,’ Mum pipes up.

What
nudist
resort? Appalled I glace around the table but not one of them looks remotely
embarrassed. I can tell I am red as a lobster, truly fifteen again. Sex! Sex!!
They are talking about sex at the
dinner
table
as lightly as if they were discussing the weather. What have my
parents been up to in my absence? I suspect this is their guests’ bad
influence. Thinking about it, my parents have become much more open since they
met them, even voting Green in the last election after forty-odd years of Tory-loving.
I wish they’d stayed that way.

I feel the past ten years slip away. I’m mortified as if it
was
ten years ago when my parents sat me
down to talk about the birds and the bees. Hello? What did they think sex
education at school and
Cosmo
were
for? It was actually a topic that was far too late for me, having already been
there, done that, but despite my parents not knowing that, their talk still
rendered me red.

‘It’s taken over from swinging,’ Mum continues.

I almost die. ‘What do you know about
that
?’ I sink down in my chair in full-blown parental-induced
horror.

‘If you have to ask,’ Mum titters, ‘you’re not old enough to
know.’

She’s even treating me like a child! Did she
really
just say that? Of course everyone
bellows at the table. I
am
fifteen
again, except the reality is I am experiencing full parental horror, aged
twenty-five. I am supposed to be a fully-fledged grown-up now; I am supposed to
be able to laugh such social hilarities off. Instead I am sat silently praying
God will open the ground up to swallow me down.
I want to die
.

‘I didn’t mean swinging,’ I hiss. I am back in full teenage
mode, though trying to defend myself from their cruel onslaught will only
antagonise them further to cruelly pick on me. ‘I know what that is, and the
other
one too.’ I can’t even fetch
myself to say
those
words in front of
them. ‘I’m merely expressing my surprise that it’s taken off in Oldsville,
that’s all.’

There, throw in a childish comment. That will prove my age
to them.

‘Well, quite frankly Arielle, your mother and I haven’t
tried it,’ Dad says with a straight face, causing my cheeks to explode further.

I do not need to hear this. The image of my parents, having
sex... Noooooo! Probably even on this very dining room. Or up against. Oh, what
have I come home to? I should have taken my chances on the streets of London
rather than have to endure this nightmare. Is this steak knife sharp enough to
end this torture?

‘Hey, you leave me out of this,’ Frank pipes up. ‘You know
I’ve not been rimming in a while…’ He pauses to allow the comedic timing effect
needed to deliver his punch line, which will only serve to humiliate me further
I’m certain. Frank, I discovered earlier on, is a car salesman who does the
Northern comedy club scene on a weekend. ‘… not since my haemorrhoids started
flaring up again,’ he finishes.

The whole room explodes with dirty laughter. Death is too
prolonged for me. I pray for instantaneous spontaneous combustion. I’m already
in hell – I can’t go anywhere worse if I do choke it.

Mortified, I slink away to the bathroom, yet I feel a stab
of envy despite my horror. My parents it seems have a better sex life than mine
and I’m the one supposed to be young, wild and single. Fair enough, I’ve only
been single for a few days but where’s the justice in this cruel world? A cruel
world where I am, sort of, jealous of my own parents. Shoot me now.

On the plus side, at least Obélix will laugh later on in the
pub and it’ll delay the inevitable ’
fessing
up to why
I’m really here. Going to the pub will also give the olds the chance to get up
to whatever they do with Frank and Alice when I’m not around. No wonder they
hardly seemed thrilled I’m home this weekend because I realise now it’s not
their scintillating chat that’s the catalyst of that friendship. Frank and
Alice have clearly corrupted my poor, innocent parents and they’re probably all
swingers together. It’s probably a dodgy swinging Caribbean cruise they’re
going on. No, no, must not have those nasty thoughts. Too late. Gross.