The Deviants (18 page)

Neil's crooked nose glowed red with all the wine he'd drunk, ‘just to bring out the taste of the beef (‘
£90 a bottle
')'.

‘I'd like to thank Manda and Paul for coming along, despite all the highly stressful preparations for
somebody's
eighteenth birthday bash next Friday night.'

Everyone at the table looked at Shelby who dipped her head behind a curtain of bleached blonde hair and went astonishingly red.

‘Yes, my beautiful niece Shelby turns eighteen next weekend; so the first of my toasts will be for you, my love. May your eighteenth year be full of cheer, and may you never turn out queer.'

The whole table – apart from me, Max and Shelby herself – roared with laughter like Neil was the funniest thing since Jesus. The kids, in their defence, didn't seem to know what was funny but the baby squealing away only made everyone else laugh even more because of it being oh-so-adorbs. I'd heard all of Neil's racist, sexist and homophobic jokes before, having been forced to go round for Sunday lunch at least once a month since childhood. The fact I never found him funny didn't stop him. It seemed to entertain him that I never laughed.

‘Don't crack your face, Estella, will you?' he boomed.

‘No, you're all right, I won't,' I said, swigging back my mineral water
(‘Ten pounds a bottle that. You can't buy it in supermarkets, you know.')
I looked at the clock, waiting for time to eat itself. I had the note for Zane Walker in my pocket and I was itching to stay true to my word and put it through his door. The dining room was so hot, I'd been concentrating on trying not to scratch my knees and forearms for the best part of an hour. To make matters worse, Granny Ethel had complained of being cold, so Jo turned up the thermostat. It was cramped in there too, filled to capacity with Max's relatives. Shelby looked stunning, as usual, in her pink jeans and wedges and tight T-shirt. Her face shimmered as mine sweated.

The table was littered with plates, glasses, baby bottles, dishes of cold vegetables and drips of horseradish and gravy. The knife block with the ‘diamond-sharpening steel and ergonomic handles' was still sitting right in the middle of it all like some centrepiece, the largest knife was
resting on the beef plate next to the carcass I'd sat looking at for most of the meal. Neil had carved, of course. Neil always carved. Why the whole knife block had to come out was obvious – so he could show off how much it cost. (
‘Only twenty in the country. Seven hundred pounds, you know.')

Twat.

Uncle Alan and his wife Kathy were pretty harmless, if you didn't get too close to her breath or his BO. Their sons, Ben and Jack, were university geniuses, not easy to talk to: Ben was studying to be a petro-chemist, Jack, a doctor, and both were more boring even than Neil. Drunken Uncle Paul and Aunty ‘Call Me Manda' were nice enough, too, though I found it hard not to look at his amputation – or her mahoosive cleavage.

‘No seriously though,' Neil laughed, flicking back his not-at-all-Just-For-Menned-boyish bangs
(‘Two hundred pounds and I didn't have to go on a waiting list either
–
this face opens any door')
, ‘we don't get together that often as a family, being as far flung as we are, so I appreciate it all the more when we do. I look forward to occasions like this, and the big par-tay next Friday, when we can all let rip like we Rittmans and Gilmores do!'

Cue more cheers.
Just get on with it
, I mumbled under my breath. Max was checking his phone under the table but he'd heard me and looked up. ‘You all right?' he mouthed.

‘I'm boiling,' I replied, tugging my collar. If someone had handed me a noose right then, I'd have been tying it to the nearest chandelier (
‘We've got five of them. Modelled on the ones at Versailles. Three grand's worth. You can't buy 'em over here
').

‘So we're all looking forward to a good old knees-up. And as I'm footing the bill, there's a free bar, and I want
you all to get absolutely paralytic.' Another chorus of cheers rose up from the aunts and uncles as he explained about the under eighteens being taken care of by a qualified childcare team he'd laid on for the night
(‘A few hundred quids' worth of childcare, mind').
Neil's eyes drifted across the table to me. ‘And our lovely Ella will be there as well, of course, as our guest – and the Honorary Rittman that she is. I don't know if many of you know, but Ella's on target now to be picked for the British Athletics team going to the Commonwealth Games in two years' time.'

There was more applause, entirely undeserved, and this time I went burning red.

Max leaned in to his dad. ‘She's not been picked yet,' he muttered.

‘I know, but she will be,' he said, smirking. ‘She's my superstar, aren't you, Ella?'

I inhaled. I exhaled. It didn't matter. He didn't matter.

‘And she's got the best trainer in the area, Pete Hamlin, coaching her privately to ensure the best possible results – so it shouldn't be too long now before we see her on that winners' podium, garlanded with medals. And she'll have the full Rittman team behind her the whole way. So a toast to our gorgeous Ella, if you will, everybody!'

Once again, the glasses were raised, and everyone looked at me, while I shrank in my seat and silently prayed for it to be over.

But Neil wasn't finished. ‘Our baby boy, Max, has just finished his first year of A levels – and is predicted all A stars I might add…'

Everybody cheered. Everyone except Shelby. And me.

I was dying to chip in with:
It hardly matters what results he got if he's going to be stuck managing your stinking garden centre the rest of his life
but I held on to it tightly,
like it was a child teetering on a cliff edge. The applause went on for ages. Then Neil started on about his football prowess and how he was even too good for the England team and Max was back slapped and high-fived and they were all oh so proud of him. All but me. And Shelby.

Then Drunken Uncle Paul piped up from nowhere. ‘Shame our Shelbs couldn't manage her career prospects a bit better, n'all.'

‘Leave it, Paul,' muttered Call Me Manda, who by this point had Soggy Yorkshire Baby clamped to her udder-like boob. (Granny Ethel was clutching her handbag to her lap and doing the sign of the cross.)

‘No, they all deserve to know, Mand.'

Shelby looked up from her phone. ‘Don't start, Dad, please. You said you wouldn't.'

‘Go on – tell your auntie and uncle what you've gone and done.'

‘I don't want to talk about it.' Her glossy pout shimmered and her cheeks glowed red.

‘For God's sake!' said Manda.

But Paul wouldn't leave it alone. He turned to the table and counted them off on his fingers. ‘Three Fs, four Gs and three Us at GCSE. And now, just yesterday, she announces she's dropping out of her college course and she's going to become a pop star. I mean, can you credit it? Pinning her future on bloody
X Factor
!'

Shelby, already at boiling point, slid back her chair and rushed from the room. The silence was punctuated by the baby banging her spoon on the edge of her tray.

‘What did you have to go and say that for, then?' said Manda, whacking him on his meaty Burnley FC-tattooed forearm.

‘What?' said Paul, oblivious. ‘I only said the truth. She's
dropped out and she's applying for
The X Factor
. Couldn't hit a bloody note with a frying pan.'

‘Never stopped anyone before.' Neil grinned, knocking back another glass of wine.

The baby started crying. Manda looked furious as she held her over her shoulder. ‘I can't believe you did that. You know how funny she is.'

Jo got up with some empty glasses. ‘Who's for crumble? The top should be browned by now.'

‘I'll give you a hand,' said Manda, shoving the winded baby back in her high chair, where she started banging her spoon and roaring like a tiny crusty-faced MP.

‘Oh, she needs that to chivvy her up a bit, she does,' said Paul, draping his arm across the back of my chair. ‘Bloody wet blanket, she is. If she spent more time on her books and less time on her phone or lads or her bloody hair extensions, maybe she'd have some decent prospects to look forward to, instead of pinning all her hopes on bloody prancing round a stage. It's not going to happen, is it?' He turned to me, putting his hot, hairy arm around my shoulders. ‘Well done, girl – well done you.'

‘Can we go soon?' I whispered to Max, as he leaned across me to clear my plate, Paul's arm still around me like a blinged-up python.

‘We haven't had crumble yet. Give it another half-hour, yeah? You haven't been out to see the Porsche yet, have you? Get Dad to show you.' Max disappeared out to the kitchen with a stack of plates, leaving me with heat exhaustion and a table-full of his relatives.

Neil butted in, reaching across me for the unopened bottle of Merlot. ‘Yeah, you haven't seen my new motor, have you?'

Aunty Kathy leaned across Paul and touched my arm.
Her perfume was suffocating. ‘Ella, remind me again what distance you are?'

‘Estella's county champion in the 400 metres, aren't you?' Neil butted in again. I reddened, all down my sweaty itchy neck. ‘Yeah,' said Neil, popping the cork on the bottle. ‘Remember that face. That's who you're gonna be cheering for come the next Olympics.'

If I'd been any more embarrassed I'd have exploded and bits of me would have splashed all over the headache-white walls.

Kathy looked impressed. ‘How thrilling. Going to be the next Mo Farah are you?'

‘No, I'm middle distance.'

‘Oh right. Usain Bolt then.'

‘Well, he's more of a sprinter.'

‘Oh right.'

I couldn't be bothered to explain any further. Her perfume had hit the back of my throat and I was suddenly nauseous.

‘She's incredible. Like white lightning, she is. Did you know we sponsor her now? Yeah. Rittman Inc. on all her kit. She's known as Volcano Girl around here, cos she ‘erupts right out of the blocks'. We'll keep sponsoring her until she loses – then she'll be out on her ear.' Neil winked at me, clearly thinking that was the funniest thing he'd ever heard.

‘She knows I'm only kidding. We wouldn't do that, would we? She's our superstar.'

Finally at my limit with the heat and the tedium, I slid my chair back. ‘Sorry, just need to pop to the loo,' I said.

To my horror, Neil got up at the same time. ‘Come and see the car first.'

Taking some plates with me, I went into the kitchen, where Jo was getting the crumble out of the oven and Call
Me Manda had the Marigolds on. Then they started fighting over who was doing the washing up.

‘No, Manda, you're a guest – I won't have it.'

‘Jo, for goodness' sake, you've cooked, it's the least I can do.'

‘We do have a dishwasher, you know.'

‘I'll just leave these here,' I said, dumping the side plates on the draining board.

‘Thanks, love,' said Jo. ‘Are you staying for crumble?'

‘Uh, yeah, I think so. Where's Max?'

‘I don't know, love.'

I turned and walked right into Neil at full pelt. ‘Come and see the Porsche,' he said, looking at Jo. ‘Shan't be a minute. Custard on mine, please.'

I was practically frogmarched out of the kitchen, across the hallway and outside onto the double drive. Neil was right behind me the whole way. He was so close to me I could smell the gravy stain on his shirt.

The black Porsche was parked at an angle on the drive, taking up the space of about three cars and shining like polished coal. There wasn't a mark on it.

‘What do you think?' he said, folding his arms and looking at the car like it was a brand new baby. ‘Beautiful, isn't she? You should hear the engine. She purrs.'

I said nothing – I couldn't believe he'd infected my private space again, with his arrogance and fatness and general wank. I could hear him swallow. He started banging on about double exhausts, seven-speed gearboxes. I kept looking back through the kitchen window where I could still see Jo and Manda at the sink, gossiping and passing each other plates. He couldn't do anything with them there.

‘You seem tense, Ella. You and Max haven't fallen out, have you?' I felt his hand on my shoulder and my entire
body shook him away, like I'd stuck my wet fingers in a plug socket.

‘All right, all right,' he said, looking around sheepishly. ‘Take it easy.'

There were a billion words in my head, but none of them seemed powerful enough to tell him how much I hated the sight of him. The smell of him. How much I wanted to scratch and smash the wax out of that Porsche. How much I wanted revenge on him – this ugly, greedy, fat, old perv.

‘Don't. Touch. Me,' was all I could manage.

He laughed, looking around again, his breath stale with red wine and roast meat. ‘Whatever you say. Only that horse has kind of bolted now, don't you think?'

He left me there, standing on the driveway, all four of my limbs shaking with some weird adrenaline that had made my whole body go completely cold. Why could I stand there and let him say and do what he wanted? What was it that rooted me to the spot in terror about that one man? I could face down the Shaws, no problem. I could outrun a furiously angry Zane Walker, who could actually flatten me if he wanted to. I could even stare into the waters of the evil Witch's Pool and not give a crap about all the skeletons in its depths or the ghosts who lurked around it at night. But when it came to Neil Rittman, I turned to stone. I know it's there, waiting to come out. Waiting to erupt.

When I could summon the will to move, I walked back inside to the warm smell of baked rhubarb and custard and laughter floating along the hallway. Call Me Manda was bringing up the rear of the crumble dish with a box of vanilla ice cream and a handful of dessert spoons.