The Wicked Girls

Chapter Four

‘Because I said so,’ says Jim.

That one’s not going to work for much longer, thinks Kirsty. Another fourteen months and she’s officially a teenager.

‘“Because I said so”? Seriously?’ sneers Sophie. ‘Can’t you do better than that?’

The toaster pops up. Kirsty puts another couple of slices in, spreads olive-oil margarine on the done ones. Ooh, she thinks, I wish we had one of those four-slice jobs. I must have spent three weeks waiting for toast over the course of this marriage.

Jim puts the Tribune down and slides his spectacles to the top of his head. He’s recently accepted that his hairline is never going to magically move forwards, and has adopted one of those ultra-short cuts. Kirsty likes it. It’s a bit metrosexual, and has brought back his cheekbones; makes him look leaner and more intense. I like the fact that I still fancy my husband after thirteen years, she thinks, and smiles to herself as she brings the toast to the table. But he’s going to have to grow it in soon, if he’s ever going to get to second-interview stage. No one wears their hair like that in the world of finance.

‘Because,’ says Jim, ‘it looks awful, that’s why. Little girls with pierced ears look awful, and I’m not having you go to upper school wearing earrings.’

‘But why?’ she whines again. Adds: ‘I’m not a little girl.’

‘Because,’ says Jim.

‘But Mum got her ears pierced when she was a baby!’ protests Sophie.

Jim shoots Kirsty a look. Too much information, it says. What did you want to tell her that for?

‘Your mother is a wonderful woman,’ he says. ‘But trust me. She’s who she is despite her upbringing, not because of it. You’d like to end up in care too, would you?’

The toast pops up again. Kirsty turns back. Yeah, it was the earrings, she thinks. That’s what did it.

Luke tears his eyes from his Nintendo. He only ever looks up from his screen when he sees an opportunity for mischief. ‘Are we snobs?’ he asks.

‘No,’ Jim says firmly. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Well…’ He scratches his head. Oh God, has he got nits again? wonders Kirsty. I’m going to have to shave his head to match his dad’s. ‘Lots of things.’

‘Like?’

Luke prods at his toast. ‘We eat bread with bits in,’ he says.

‘So does the entire population of Eastern Europe,’ replies Jim.

‘And we never go to McDonald’s,’ says Luke reproachfully.

‘I don’t want you to end up with diabetes and hurty hips. And anyway, we’re economising. Use your knife, Luke. Don’t just chew your way round the edges like that.’

Sophie examines her reflection in the back of a spoon, flips her hair at it. Adolescence is inches away.

‘Eat your toast, Sophie,’ Kirsty says. ‘What do you want? Marmite or marmalade?’

‘Nutella.’

Kirsty and Jim’s eyes meet over their children’s heads.

‘I know,’ groans Sophie. ‘We’re economising. How long are we going to be economising for?’

There’s a tiny silence, then Jim answers: ‘Until I get a job. Come on, you guys. It’s time we got out of here.’

The ritual response: ‘Uuuh, Dad!’

Jim stands up. ‘Do you want a lift or not? Seriously. I’m not in the mood for any nonsense today. I’ve got a lot to do.’

‘Nonsense’? You would have said ‘bollocks’ when we first met, reflects Kirsty. Parenthood has turned us into pussycats.

‘I’m not finished,’ protests Sophie.

Jim pauses briefly. ‘Well, you can eat it in the car, or walk. Your choice.’

‘I don’t see why I have to go to stupid summer camp anyway,’ grumbles Sophie. ‘Holidays are meant to be holidays, aren’t they?’

‘Yes,’ says Jim. ‘But sadly there’s a rest of the world that has to go on while you’re not at school.’

‘We thought it would be more fun than staying in your room all day,’ says Kirsty.

‘Mum used to keep us company in the holidays,’ Sophie says. ‘I don’t see why you can’t. It’s not like you’ve got-’

She catches her mother’s eye, sees the warning in it and stops her sentence. Gets up from the table and scuffs her way over to her trainers in her navy-blue socks with her big toes sticking out. Socks, thinks Kirsty. They grow out of everything. I’ll need to stop in at Primark. And maybe it’s a good thing she doesn’t like summer camp, because if things don’t improve, it’ll be the last one she goes to. We’ll be farming her out to a sweatshop this time next year.

She glances at Jim and sees, to her relief, that he’s brushed Sophie’s tactlessness off. She can never be sure, these days. Sometimes a careless word, some assumption that he’ll be available, that he has nothing better to do, will send him into a spiral of self-doubt that will kibosh the job hunt for days. He’s being so good about it, she thinks, but it’s hard for all of us, and sometimes he forgets that. It scares me to death, being the only one bringing in money, but I can’t talk to him about it. Every time I do, it sounds like a reproach.

Jim tucks his folder into his briefcase and comes over to kiss her goodbye. He’s still treating job-hunting like a job, thank the Lord. It’s when he takes to his pyjamas that she feels she’ll really need to worry.

‘Sorry,’ he says, gesturing at the uncleared table. ‘I’ll do it when I get in.’

She feels herself quail at the humbleness. They’re both uncomfortable with the way he’s taken over the bulk of the domestic duties, even though it’s the reasonable thing to do. ‘It’s OK,’ she replies. ‘I don’t have to leave till eleven anyway.’

He shrugs the bag up on to his shoulder. ‘What’s on the list today?’

‘Press conference. Some new political movement. Authoritarian UKIP or something.’

‘Sounds like a laugh.’

‘Fish in a barrel,’ she says.

Jim laughs. ‘When in doubt, be facetious, eh?’

‘First law of journalism.’

Another tiny, awkward pause. She avoids enquiring as to his plans for the day. Since his redundancy, the fact that all his days follow a similar pattern of poring over the job ads, drinking coffee and doing afternoon housework is a subject that makes them both wince. Kirsty knows how she would feel herself if she were in his position. She loves work, defines herself by it. Just the thought of no longer doing it fills her with a deep, aching melancholy.

‘What are they called?’

‘The New Moral Army.’

He laughs. Picks up his tea and drains it. ‘Oh, good Lord. Kids, come on!’

‘It’s going to be a short day today, I reckon,’ she says. ‘I won’t have to reach for a joke at all. Just type up the speech.’

‘I’ve never heard of them.’

‘No. They’re new. That bloke Dara Gibson making his move.’

‘What? The charity bloke?’

Kirsty nods. Dara Gibson, a self-made billionaire, has made a splash lately with a series of high-profile contributions to cancer, animals, ecology and miserable kids. All the emotive causes, none of the donations anonymous.

‘Hunh,’ he says. ‘Might have guessed he had an agenda.’

‘Everybody’s got an agenda of one sort or another.’