Skulk (7 page)

When she was out of the room, I turned to my dad.

He was there too, depending on what you mean by “there”.

My dad was like the Invisible Man, if all the Invisible Man wanted to do was read the paper and not pay corporation tax. Once in Year Nine he came to a Parents’ Evening and met all my teachers, sitting and listening attentively as they went through my aggressively mediocre grades. I saw them shake his hand and make eye contact with him. And then I’d been summoned to the Year Head and told off for not bringing anyone.

He wasn’t mean. He never shouted. He was just a vague pinkish presence at the dinner table and in the hall, like a walking man-sized copy of the
Financial Times
. I used to think he wanted a son, but actually I don’t think he would’ve been much better with a boy. I don’t think he cared for children at all. Maybe if I’d been a better daughter he would have cared more – but far more likely he would have been vague and useless at the back of piano recitals and school awards ceremonies.

“Dad,” I said, “what’s the party for?”

“It’s a Party thing,” Dad said. I heard the capital P – when you live with a Member of Parliament your ear becomes attuned to it. He didn’t seem to care that I’d forgotten. “Something to do with the budget.”

Good old Dad. It’s nice to have a parent who doesn’t freak out about every little thing I do.

I mean, it’s hard to freak out about anything – or anyone – you never take the slightest bit of notice of. Still, hooray for my dad not being my mum.

I rubbed my eyes. So my presence was required at a Party party.

I should’ve let the fog get me.

I was asleep on my bed, curled up around a sketchbook, when Gail knocked on my door and walked in without waiting. I think she has delusions of being Jeeves. Except that if Jeeves’ boss had said “don’t do that, it’s creepy, and while I’m at it can you stop going through my drawers looking for reasons to get me in trouble with my mother”, Jeeves would’ve listened.

I lurched awake, gripping on tight to the biro I’d had in my hand when I’d dropped off. Gail waved a dry-cleaning hanger at me.

“I have your outfit for this evening.”

“Wass time?” I mumbled, and glanced at the clock. 4.28. Damn. I dug my hands into my hair and sat up, closing the sketchbook on the page full of star-stones and swirly living fog. She laid the dress in its white plastic on the bed and told me to hurry up and get ready, then left.

I glared after her.

What if I turn into a fox, right in front of you, and jump out the window instead? What would you do?

I bet the Skulk doesn’t have a dress code.

I sighed and unzipped the plastic dry-cleaning bag. Would it be the weird broad-shouldered navy blue one that reminded Mum of the Good Old Eighties? It seemed appropriate for the occasion.

It was new. It was pink. I wanted to cry.

I squeezed into it and tied the shiny pink ribbon at my back, staring in the mirror. It had a built-in corset – which was at least the second best thing after a dress that actually fit – and little pink and white ruffles over the shoulders.

I wondered if she’d had it made specially. Because what were the odds that a dress bought off the rack would make me look this much like an undercooked sausage?

I slathered my hair in anti-frizz and went downstairs just in time to hear Mum give a yell and something hit something else with a
smack
.

I edged into the drawing room with my back to the doorframe, ready to make a hasty exit. Mum was standing by the big gold-framed mirror over the fireplace. She turned, brandishing a rolled-up copy of the dinner menu. Her eyes lighted on me for a second and then slid away to the stairs.

“
Gail!
” she shrieked.

Gail hurtled down the stairs, faster than I thought it was possible to go without losing her professional poise.

“There’s a spider in the fireplace. Get the trap and kill it.”

“There was a spider in my room, this morning,” I volunteered. “And at school on Friday. It might be the time of year.”

Mum frowned at me, as if I was a lampshade that had come to life and tried to make a political point. I felt pretty much like one, considering the ruffles. “Yes, I suppose so,” she said slowly. It was like conceding the point actually caused her pain.

Suddenly though, I wasn’t sure I was right. I mean, it
could
have been the time of year. But... that made about six spiders in three days. That’s not normal.

I didn’t know about the one that Mum had seen, but the five that I’d seen had all looked the same. Not just has-eight-legs, is-a-dark-colour, basically-it’s-a-spider the same. They were
exactly
the same colour, the same size.

I could easily be imagining it. Maybe I was just seeing weird stuff when there was none. It was probably the least crazy reaction I could have to having turned into a fox last night.

Surely it was more likely than the idea that I was being stalked by a spider.

Gail scuttled off to get the spider trap – a gleaming chrome thing that I had never seen actually catch anything except lint – and Mum brushed down her little black dress and turned to me.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she said. As if I had even the slightest choice in the matter. “I’ve invited two of the young people who’ve been campaigning to help us pass the amendments to the budget. I’d like you to look after them this evening.”

Oh good. Young Conservatives.

I’m sure there are young Tories who are nice, thoughtful people who want to get into politics to make a positive difference to other people. There are, I’m vaguely aware, young Tories who are sweet, polite, non-white, even female.

Those are just not the ones my mum invites to parties.

She looked me up and down again, and smiled in her stretched-out, thin-lipped way. “Please... try to be a good hostess. If they empty their glasses and you can’t see the staff, volunteer to get them a new one yourself. Try not to let them feel as if you’re not paying them attention. They’re our guests, and they’re boys, so let them do most of the talking and try not to insult them.”

Sometimes I wonder how my mother got to be a successful career politician and yet still had parts of her brain hardwired straight into the 1950s.

She was straightening the flowers on the mantelpiece now, still talking, but in a thoughtful way, almost to herself.

“They’re both charming young men. I’m sure they’ll like you. They’re both at Cambridge, you should ask them about their colleges. I’m sure they’d be happy to show you around. Wouldn’t that be nice?” She turned and looked at me again, and gave a miniscule nod of approval.

I suppressed a shiver. If my mother approved of me, something must be up.

The party was one of Mum’s political schmoozing affairs. A gang of black-shirted waiters emerged from the kitchen, as neat and regimented as if Hilde had just unpacked them from a plastic box at the back of a cupboard. They passed out glasses of wine to the guests as they arrived, and circled the room with little gourmet nibbles on square black plates.

The guests were mostly politicians; friends and collaborators of Mum’s. Ministers chortled over their glasses at lobbyists. A few of Dad’s colleagues and clients turned up too, and stood in the corner of the room, chomping on little green pastries and talking about furniture and concrete cores and Qatari finance. They were mostly white men in suits, but eventually they were joined by a woman. I couldn’t help staring a bit as she walked in. She was black, and wearing a peacock-coloured dress, her hair thickly braided and shimmering under a sprinkling of gold glitter. She was overdressed for the occasion, and I caught Mum giving her a doubtful side-eye, but somehow she carried it off with such panache that she made everyone else in the room look underdressed. I found it hard to believe my Dad knew anyone that interesting.

I lurked by the window, very slowly drinking the lemonade one of the waiters had pressed into my hand and staring at the pointy porcelain ornaments on the windowsill while I listened in to their conversation. It was disappointing: the woman joined right in with Dad’s talk of steel, land deals and billion pound loans. I was willing to bet she was disgustingly rich, just from the way they all seemed to fall over themselves to agree with everything she said, but I couldn’t make out what it was she actually did. I was focused on the polite chatter, trying to catch the woman’s name, when I suddenly heard loud voices on the front step. I peered out of the window, trying to see who was there. I could make out two shadowy figures, but not much detail. They were braying with laughter, like posh donkeys. Mum disappeared to open the door and halloooed them down the hall and into the drawing room.

“Margaret,” she cut across the room towards me with two boys in her wake. “I’d like you to meet Richard and Warren.”

I tried to smooth down my dress and smile pleasantly, though my face suddenly felt like it was made of stiff plastic and I hated myself a bit for caring whether or not they thought I looked like a sausage.

Richard was the taller and better-looking of the two. I observed his square jaw and artfully curly blond hair with the dispassionate gaze of someone who knew that fancying him would make her mother happy and had
no intention whatsoever
of making her mother happy no matter how fit he was. He was wearing a tweed jacket, suspenders and glasses without lenses in them. Textbook hipster – such a classic look I had to wonder if he dressed like this all the time or if it was some kind of elaborate fancy dress. I decided to call him Hipster Dick, at least in the privacy of my own head.

I realised I was staring and turned my glance to Warren. In contrast to Hipster Dick, Warren was short and stocky. He was wearing jeans and a yellow Paul Smith shirt. I noticed Mum didn’t seem to be
utterly humiliated
by the denim as long as it was on one of her guests.

“Call me Rich,” said Hipster Dick, with a sweet half smile.

“Meg,” I said, in a nice loud clear voice so Mum could hear me.

Warren replied by smiling at my boobs. I only hoped they were enough to keep him entertained for the rest of the evening, because God knew I had no idea what to say to him.

Mum was looking at me. I was supposed to be doing something. Oh, right.

“Can I, um, can I get you something to drink?” Mum rolled her eyes at me before she walked away. Obviously I was already a total disaster. I turned to wave over one of the waiters with a little tray. Warren and Hipster Dick both took glasses of red wine. So that was that part done.

The three of us hovered by the window sipping our drinks in silence, smiling awkwardly.

This was excruciating.

“So, er, Mum said you go to Cambridge?” I asked.

“We’re in first year at Trinity,” said Hipster Dick. “Are you applying?”

“Well, Mum wants me to.”

“I’d be happy to introduce you to a couple of the right people,” he said. “You should come up for a couple of days.”

“That’s what Mum said,” I agreed, without much enthusiasm.

“You don’t sound very sure.”

“Oh, I mean, thank you, really, it’s just...”
It’s just that I don’t want to go anywhere that’ll take me just because my mother introduced me to all the important people.
It even sounded rude in my head, so I just trailed off.

Hipster Dick’s pretty amber-brown eyes narrowed. “It sucks that who I introduce you to might be what gets you in.”

I blinked at him. “Yeah, it really does.”

I felt my face warming under his gaze. I guess I’d misjudged him. I guess not everyone Mum knows has to be completely morally bankrupt.

Warren made a deeply unattractive spitting sound in the back of his throat. “Ugh, Richard, don’t be such a fag. Hey, you were at Conference this year, tell me Jenkins didn’t do his usual two hours on NHS reforms.”

I blinked at him. I instinctively tried to formulate a reply, despite the fact I’d rather die than attend a Party Conference.

But Hipster Dick laughed, and just like that, I realised my five seconds of being relevant to the conversation were over. Warren had very deliberately changed the subject. He kept smiling at my boobs as if they were making a contribution, but after the third time he’d made Hipster Dick laugh and I had no idea how, I drew my own conclusions.

“I was helping out at the EDYC last week, surgery was full of crackpots as per, then Glenn and Alex took Barrows and Robinson out to lunch to grease them up for the IDK and sprung prescription allowances on them over the milk-fed veal, they nearly crapped themselves but the GNE is solid,” said Warren, without apparently stopping to breathe.

I tried to smile when it seemed appropriate and laugh whenever Hipster Dick did, but I could feel my eyes glazing over. I traced patterns in the condensation on the side of my glass until my fingers were dripping wet and I had to surreptitiously wipe them on a discarded napkin.

I’m not stupid. I’m politically engaged. It’d be hard not to be, when I live with the MP for Kensington and Chelsea. She named me after Margaret Thatcher, and I’ve been searching for a suitable revenge for that ever since. I can follow real politics. It’s just the backroom insider talk that makes my brain try to crawl away and hide under the sofa.

“Glenn says we’re going to screw them on copyright reform,” Warren said. He followed up with a vivid description of just how hard and against their will they were going to get screwed that made me glare at him and grip onto my glass for fear I might accidentally chuck my lemonade in his face. Hipster Dick caught my eye and gave a tiny eyebrow-twitch.

An apology, for his friend’s douchebaggery? He wasn’t sorry enough to try and make Warren shut up, though.

Warren carried on speaking and I tried to tune him out again.

A dark scuttling shape moved across the windowsill and I bit back a yelp.

Another bloody spider.

I don’t like spiders. Nobody likes spiders. It’s the legs, they’re just wrong. But I didn’t want to run away or squish it this time. Maybe I was getting hardened to the creep-factor, or maybe I’d just lost all feeling in my brain after listening to Warren for – I glanced at the clock – oh God, almost half an hour.