All About Mia Read online

  ‘Well, for starters, I can see your bum cheeks,’ she says.

  ‘You’re supposed to,’ I mutter, pulling on my seatbelt and gazing mournfully up at Stella’s bedroom window.

  The shorts in question are my very favourite pair of denim hot pants. Mum hates them with a passion. But then she hates most of my clothes. Which is totally unfair. It’s not my fault I have a naturally hot body and everything I put on looks automatically sexy whether I intend it to or not. In fact, if it’s anyone’s fault, it’s Mum’s, considering the fact her DNA is fifty per cent responsible. Sometimes I think she’d be happier if I just went full-on Amish and started wearing a bonnet and woolly tights with dresses down to my ankles.

  It’s going to be a hot day, a proper scorcher according to the weather report on the radio, which of course means the entire country will fall apart temporarily. I can already feel sweat patches forming under my armpits. The sweat smells of booze, I swear. I peel my T-shirt away from my skin and try to waft some non-existent air with the loose material, making a mental note not to let Mum get too close.

  Mum and Audrey are talking about Audrey’s new training schedule, their voices low and serious. Ever since she won a string of medals at the British Junior Swimming Championships last year, people have been throwing the ‘O’ word around, like it isn’t totally outlandish to imagine Audrey up on the podium one day in the not-so-distant future, a shiny Olympic medal dangling round her neck and the British national anthem blaring out over the tannoy.

  I fiddle with the hem of my T-shirt, curling it round my index finger until the skin goes bright white. I let go, watching as the blood rushes back, turning my finger pink again. I can smell Audrey’s protein bar. It reminds me of the stuff she feeds her guinea pig, and makes me feel a bit sick. I look down at my legs. They’re covered in bruises and inspire another flashback to last night – me and Mikey on Andrew’s trampoline, competing to see who could jump the highest. From the state of my black and blue legs it didn’t end well. I catch Mum’s eye in the rear-view mirror. She frowns. I pretend not to notice, rifling in my bag for my sunglasses. I slip them on and try to ignore the churning in my stomach as Mum and Audrey talk about ‘land training’ and ‘kick boards’ and ‘county times’ and a ton of other swimming stuff that has nothing to do with me.

  Not that I’m surprised. I know perfectly well where I come in the family pecking order – right at the very bottom.

  3

  Ten minutes later, Mum pulls into our weed-infested driveway, parking up next to her treasured motorbike. I open the passenger door of the car before Mum has even turned off the engine, and make a beeline for the kitchen.

  After downing a cup of black coffee and sneaking a couple of Nurofen from the stash behind the tea bags, I’m despatched straight to Grace’s room with strict instructions to return it to its former glory. And fast.

  Despite Mum’s instructions, I hesitate at the bottom of the stairs. Ordinarily I charge up them without paying much attention to the framed photographs and memorabilia that hang on the wall, but today I take my time, actually looking at them for the first time in ages.

  The jumble of photos and certificates and press clippings are in no particular order. I’m convinced Mum and Dad have done this in an attempt to disguise the fact that, unlike my sisters, I’m not award-worthy in any shape or form. As it is, it would probably take a moment or two for the untrained eye to notice that evidence of my personal achievements on the Campbell-Richardson ‘Wall of Fame’ is woefully lacking.

  About halfway up the stairs, nestled between the press cutting from last August’s Rushton Recorder article celebrating Grace’s record-breaking A-level results, and a photograph of Audrey diving into the water at a recent swimming competition, her body long, lean and powerful, is a picture of all three of us. It was taken when Grace was still at Queen Mary’s, and Mum paid the visiting school photographer extra to take a photo of the three of us together.

  It’s super-cheesy. Shot from the waist up, it shows the three of us sitting astride an unseen wooden PE bench in age order, our heads turned to face the camera, arms looped around each other’s waists. I remember the photographer – a tall skinny guy wearing a shiny waistcoat – repeatedly urging us to ‘move in closer’, so in the end my boobs were all squished up against Grace’s ramrod-straight back and, behind me, Audrey was stuck with a mouthful of hair. But even without the awkward pose, I would have still looked the odd one out.

  Grace and Audrey got Dad’s height and Mum’s slim boyish build and although I’m an above-average 5’5”, Grace (5’10”) and Audrey (5’8” and still growing) make me feel like a midget in comparison. Figure-wise, I have the sort of curves that get grown men flustered – something that isn’t lost on either of my parents and perhaps accounts for their disapproval of ninety per cent of my wardrobe. Although all three of us inherited the same chocolate-brown eyes, while Grace and Audrey got our Irish mum’s smooth, wavy hair, I landed the massive Afro, courtesy of our Jamaican dad. When I was little I used to hate my hair and cry every time Mum combed it, begging her to let me have it relaxed so it would look like Grace’s and Audrey’s. These days, I love it. It’s still a pain to look after sometimes, and I could do without the creepy blokes in bars who sidle up to me and try to guess where I’m from, like there’s a prize going for the correct answer, and then get all shirty when I tell them I’m from Rushton. But despite all that, the payoff is worth it every time I strut onto the dance floor, or walk down the high street or corridor at school, heads turning like falling dominos as I pass. Because there’s no one else in Rushton who looks quite like Mia Campbell-Richardson.

  The day Grace left for Greece, I moved out of the bedroom I share with Audrey and took over Grace’s. As I look around, I have to admit Mum wasn’t exaggerating about the state it’s in. Whatever way you try to spin it, it’s a complete tip. It’s been hard though, putting my stamp on a room that’s still full of all of Grace’s stuff – the piles of books, the billions of awards and certificates proclaiming just how brilliant she is, the stacks of old diaries filled with her perfect handwriting, the framed photographs of her collecting her Duke of Edinburgh award or posing triumphantly with the school netball team. It doesn’t help that Grace’s room is barely bigger than your average cupboard.

  I wonder where Grace’s spoddy boyfriend is going to sleep, whether Mum and Dad will make him go downstairs on the sofa or if he’ll be allowed to join Grace in her single bed. When Jordan and I were still going out and I asked if he could sleep over one time, Mum and Dad reacted like I’d just requested to take over the house for a mass orgy or something.

  I strip the sheets off Grace’s bed, bundling everything up and chucking it onto the landing, before sinking down on the carpet for a rest, my head still pounding. I’m unsure where to start. There are clothes and magazines all over the floor, makeup and toiletries littering every other available surface. The other day I knocked over an entire can of Diet Coke and there’s a brown stain the size of a dinner plate on the pale blue carpet.

  I can’t cope with any hardcore cleaning so I start with the cosmetic stuff, peeling my posters off the walls. I crawl onto the bed and reluctantly pull down a topless Zac Efron, revealing the vintage map of Cambridge that Grace has had hanging over her bed since she was about eight years old.

  Time for a fag break. I crawl out of the window and onto the kitchen roof. Both Grace’s bedroom and mine and Audrey’s look out over the back garden. When we moved here nine years ago, the three of us were expressively forbidden from ever coming out here. It’s a rule I’ve broken pretty much every day since.

  I peek to check Mum and Dad are safely inside before lighting up, dangling my legs over the edge, climbing ivy tickling my calves.

  Before she went away, Grace used to stick her head out of her window and beg me to stop, reeling off facts about lung cancer and blood circulation and premature aging. My response was always the same – just because I like to unwind with the occ
asional cigarette, it does not mean I’m addicted.

  I take out my phone and, before I can stop myself, bring up the photo of Jordan and his new girlfriend again. The photo is pretty gross. Jordan’s practically chewing on the girl’s lip, like it’s a piece of grisly steak or something, his arm outstretched to capture the moment for prosperity on his phone. Since yesterday I’ve discovered the girl’s name – Hattie Trevellion – and from poring over her Instagram feed, it’s quickly become clear she’s the polar opposite of me in pretty much every single way – tall, blonde, skinny, no tits, posh. I know she’s posh because in one of her posts she’s wearing the Toft Park uniform, and everyone knows it costs an arm and a leg to go there. I sometimes see Toft Park girls in Rushton town centre after school, wearing the stupid straw boater hats that even the sixth formers have to wear, and carrying their school books around in Marc Jacobs handbags, their noses in the air. I bet Hattie is a right stuck-up cow; she certainly looks it from her photos.

  It takes over an hour to remove all evidence of my occupation from Grace’s room, shoving everything into bin bags and transferring them back to my old room where Audrey is lying on the carpet in low plank position, her face red with determination. As I pile the bags onto my bed, she lowers her chest to the floor for a few seconds before transitioning into cobra position.

  ‘I’m glad you’re back,’ she says.

  I pull a face. ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Yes. I get lonely without you.’

  ‘You need to get out more, Auds.’

  Of the three of us, Audrey is the biggest homebody. Even though she’s popular at school and swimming club and has plenty of friends, given the choice I reckon Audrey would always choose home over anywhere else.

  I go back to Grace’s room and do one final sweep. The room looks sort of sad and empty without my fairy lights and postcards, lava lamp and hot-pink duvet cover brightening up the place. I push the bed so it’s under the window. It means Grace won’t be able to open her wardrobe door all the way, but at least the Coke stain will be hidden from immediate view. I sigh, shut the door, and head downstairs.

  In the kitchen, Mum and Dad are snogging up against the fridge.

  Ew.

  They’ve always been pretty hot on PDAs, but ever since they set a date for the wedding they’re all over each other any moment they get.

  People are always surprised when they find out my mum and dad aren’t married. They met when they were teenagers, in a dodgy Rushton nightclub called Rumours that no longer exists. Within six months Mum was pregnant with Grace. Dad proposed the day Mum found out (in the loo at Grandma Jules’s house apparently), but they’ve never actually got round to saying ‘I do’. Then on Christmas Day last year, with Grace on Skype in Greece, Dad got down on one knee amongst the discarded wrapping paper and re-proposed to Mum with a brand-new diamond ring to replace her crappy twenty-year-old Argos one.

  They’re getting married at the end of July with Grace, Audrey and me as bridesmaids. There are only two real downsides to any of this:

  1) The wedding preparations are making Mum and Dad super-frisky, and;

  2) They’re being even tighter than usual, because even though they’re apparently on ‘a strict budget’, Dad is determined to give Mum ‘the wedding of her dreams’, which is all very cute and everything, but means I haven’t had a new pair of going-out shoes in ages and keep having to borrow Stella’s like a total pleb (not to the mention the fact she’s a full size bigger than me).

  ‘Get a room, guys,’ I say, squeezing past my parents to fill up the kettle.

  They separate reluctantly, grinning, Dad holding a tea towel over his crotch. Double ew.

  I turn away, grabbing a teaspoon from the cutlery drawer and heaping coffee granules into an oversized mug. If I’m going to make it through a full-on family lunch, I definitely need more caffeine.

  ‘I thought you were supposed to be in bed,’ I say over my shoulder.

  ‘I couldn’t sleep,’ Dad replies. ‘Too excited about having all my girls back under the same roof.’

  I roll my eyes. Dad can be a proper sap sometimes.

  He gives Mum a kiss on the cheek and scampers out of the kitchen to sort himself out.

  ‘Another coffee?’ Mum says, eyeing the jar of Nescafe in my hand. ‘All that caffeine isn’t good for you, you know, Mia.’

  ‘Well, if I hadn’t had to get out of bed at the crack of dawn this morning, I probably wouldn’t need it,’ I say, adding hot water to my mug and watching the liquid turn inky black as I stir.

  ‘Oh, don’t be such a drama queen,’ Mum says, fiddling with the temperature on the oven.

  I take a slurp of coffee. It burns the back of my tongue.

  ‘Ooh,’ she says, turning round. ‘I forgot to ask, how’d you do on that English essay?’

  ‘Oh. OK. I got a B.’

  I don’t even know where my lie comes from. Only that I’m too hungover to deal with Mum’s disappointed face today. I’m unprepared for how thrilled she is, smiling and hugging me tightly.

  ‘See, I told you you’d start to see results if you put the effort in.’

  I look at my feet. There’s a dirty tidemark across my toes from the pair of shoes I wore last night.

  Mum lets me go and opens the cutlery drawer. ‘Here you go,’ she says, thrusting a bunch of knives and forks at me.

  I frown. As usual the kitchen table is covered with bits of newspaper, unopened post and change from Dad’s pockets.

  ‘Not there, we’re going to eat outside,’ Mum explains. ‘Oh, and remember to set an extra place for Sam.’

  ‘About Sam,’ I say. ‘How long exactly is he staying for?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Mum admits. ‘The weekend at least, I imagine, maybe longer. Why?’

  ‘No reason,’ I say, sighing and slumping against the fridge.

  ‘Come on, chop chop,’ Mum says, clapping her hands together and motioning towards the patio doors. ‘The table isn’t going to set itself.’

  I groan and head outside. The garden is a proper suntrap, the hot paving slabs beneath my bare feet forcing me onto my tiptoes.

  ‘And once you’ve done that,’ Mum calls after me, ‘you can go upstairs and change out of those bloody shorts.’

  I make my way round the table, chucking the knives and forks down haphazardly. I’m not overly thrilled at the prospect of Sam gate-crashing for the weekend or however long he plans on sticking around for. It means I’m going to have to act all polite and civil. I expect he’s a total dullard too, just like Grace’s ex, Dougie. Grace’s taste in men is boring with a capital ‘B’. They’re always total suck-ups with neat haircuts and good table manners, the sort of boys who offer you their jacket when it’s cold and point out the constellations and ask if they can kiss you. Snooooooooze.

  Dad ends up doing the cake delivery for Mum so I manage to sneak upstairs for a quick nap while Audrey helps with lunch. I must be totally out of it when Dad gets back because the next thing I know the doorbell is chiming and Mum’s bellowing, ‘They’re here!’ up the stairs.

  I peel myself off the mattress, blood rushing to my head as I slowly become vertical. My nap has had the reverse effect it was supposed to, and somehow I feel even worse than I did before I lay down. I go over to the mirror to survey the damage. I look like shit, my eyes bloodshot, a massive lightning-shaped crease down the left-hand side of my face and a brand-new spot the size of Mount Vesuvius slap bang in the middle of my chin.

  I know they’re probably expecting me to go straight down and join the welcoming committee, to be all fake and huggy and say, ‘Oh, Grace, I’ve missed you soooooo much!’ but I can’t bring myself to do it. Instead, I creep out onto the landing, ducking into the bathroom quickly and turning on the radio at maximum volume before Mum or Dad have the chance to summon me downstairs.

  I take my time in the shower, letting the water pummel against my back and shower cap while I sing along to the radio. By the time I get out, my skin is wrinkl
y and tender and there are puddles all over the tiles. I chuck a towel down and push it around with my foot, soaking up the excess water, then wrap another round my body and pad over to the mirror. The remnants of last night’s smoky-eye makeup are smeared down my cheeks. It’s actually kind of a cool look, although I doubt Mum would agree. Reluctantly, I wipe my face clean with a cleansing wipe, quickly turning it a muddy grey before helping myself to a big dollop of Mum’s nice moisturizer, smoothing it on all over.

  Clean and creamed, I turn off the radio and step out onto the landing. It’s eerily quiet. Which is weird. Our house is many things but quiet is rarely one of them, and from the way Mum and Dad have been acting about Grace’s premature return, I’d been expecting a carnival atmosphere.

  I’m distracted by my stomach rumbling. The last thing I ate was a McDonald’s Happy Meal at about 4 p.m. yesterday. I wonder what’s for lunch. I bet Mum has made a proper effort. Anything for her darling Grace.

  Back in my room, I get changed quickly, pulling on a clean pair of shorts and my favourite T-shirt – grey marl with the words ‘It’s All About Mia’ splashed across the front in hot-pink lettering. I consider attempting to cover up the volcano on my chin before remembering there’s no one important here – just my parents, Audrey, Grace and her stupid boyfriend. I abandon my makeup bag and head downstairs. About halfway down, I encounter Audrey huddled on one of the steps, her bony knees drawn up under her chin. Again, weird. Why isn’t she in the kitchen with everyone else?

  ‘What’s going on?’ I ask, peering over the banister and noting the closed door. ‘Why are you out here?’

  ‘Mum and Dad are talking to Grace and Sam,’ Audrey replies.

  ‘But what about lunch? I’m starvacious.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  I pause and listen. I can hear raised voices, though not quite loud enough for me to make out actual words. They don’t sound happy, which is even weirder still. Mum and Dad are always happy with Grace. It’s usually me they reserve their shouting for.