All About Mia Page 5

  ‘Mia,’ Dad says sharply. ‘Language.’

  ‘What? Pissed? Seriously? Since when is “pissed” not allowed? You say “piss” and “pissed” all the time!’

  A second waiter appears with a notepad and pen. ‘Are we ready to order?’

  Dad lies and says yes, forcing us all to scour our menus at record speed. I order the pumpkin and sage gnocchi and down my prosecco, leaving a coral-pink lipstick mark on the rim.

  ‘You know what,’ Sam says. ‘I was going to have the calzone, but what Mia’s having sounds really good.’ He snaps his menu shut. ‘I’ll have the gnocchi too, please.’ He grins at me.

  What a suck-up.

  Dad proposes a toast, angling his body towards Grace and Sam who are holding hands over the top of the table.

  ‘I’m not going to lie,’ he says. ‘Yesterday was one of the hardest days of my life. But it was also one of the proudest. Grace, if anyone can make this work, it’s you, my darling.’

  Grace’s mouth turns down at the corners, the way it always does when she’s about to cry. Sam leans in and kisses her on her cheek.

  ‘And not forgetting Sam,’ Dad continues. ‘Twenty years ago I was in your exact same shoes. My girlfriend –’ a quick glance at Mum ‘– was pregnant and, I have to admit it, I was terrified. But with hard work and communication, Nikki and I have turned something that was unplanned into one of the best things that’s ever happened to us. Sam, I know sincerity when I see it, and I believe you when you say you’re going to do everything in your power to take care of Grace and my future grandchild. Welcome to the family, son.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Sam says, standing up and shaking Dad’s hand.

  Son? Sir? Give me strength.

  ‘So if you’d all like to raise your glasses …’ Dad continues.

  ‘Hang on a second,’ I interrupt, waggling my empty glass in the air. ‘I need something to toast with. It’s bad luck otherwise.’

  ‘Mia, don’t push your luck,’ Mum says through gritted teeth.

  ‘But it is!’ I insist. ‘I read it on the internet. Tell them, Dad.’

  Dad responds by sloshing tap water into my glass. ‘There,’ he says, ‘you can toast with that. Happy now?’

  I slump back in my seat. ‘Just don’t say I didn’t warn you if it all goes tits up.’

  Everyone acts like they can’t hear me.

  Dad raises his glass. Reluctantly I copy him, lifting mine a few centimetres off the tablecloth.

  ‘To Grace and Sam,’ he says.

  ‘To Grace and Sam,’ we echo with varying degrees of enthusiasm.

  When the food arrives, Sam makes lots of over-the-top yummy noises, declaring his gnocchi as good as the stuff he had in Rome last summer. He’s clearly trying to impress my parents in any way he can. To be fair, he’s doing a pretty good job, the two of them almost melting into a puddle as he describes his career plans.

  ‘Any idea yet as to what you’d like to specialize in?’ Dad asks.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Sam says. ‘Maybe surgery.’

  ‘Grace considered medicine briefly,’ Mum says.

  ‘For about five minutes,’ Grace says. ‘Classics is definitely a lot more me.’

  I don’t even know what the classics are.

  ‘You’re still going then?’ I say. ‘To Cambridge, I mean.’

  ‘Of course,’ Grace replies, blinking as if surprised by my question.

  ‘But who’s going to take care of the baby when you’re at lectures and stuff?’

  ‘We’ll take it in turns.’

  ‘And if there’s a clash, my mum will help out,’ Sam says.

  ‘Sam’s mum lives a few miles outside Cambridge,’ Grace adds.

  How convenient. Trust Grace to land on her feet and score a boyfriend with a free babysitter on tap.

  ‘She must know then,’ I say.

  ‘Who?’ Grace asks, her eyes flicking towards Sam.

  ‘Sam’s mum. You must have already told her about the baby if she’s already agreed to babysit.’

  Mum sits up a little straighter. Grace and Sam exchange mildly panicked looks.

  Busted.

  ‘Grace?’ Mum says. ‘Is this true?’

  ‘Well, yes,’ Grace says quickly. ‘But only because we wanted to have the childcare issue sorted before we came home.’

  ‘My dad doesn’t know yet,’ Sam adds. ‘No else one does.’

  Mum is still upset though; I can tell by the way she takes an extra-long sip of her water, her eyes lowered.

  ‘Wait, are you seriously telling me none of your mates know?’ I ask, tracing my finger round the top of my empty champagne flute.

  ‘That’s right,’ Grace says.

  ‘Not even Elise?’

  Elise is Grace’s best friend.

  ‘Not even Elise,’ Grace repeats. ‘It was important to us that we told Mum and Dad before anyone else.’

  ‘Well, apart from Sam’s mum,’ I say, biting the top off a breadstick.

  Grace widens her eyes at me as if to say ‘shut up’. I smile serenely back.

  Sam quickly changes the subject by asking Mum and Dad about the wedding, otherwise known as their favourite topic of conversation. It’s a smart trick, Mum and Dad immediately launching into an enthusiastic blow-by-blow account of the latest wedding-related drama. The entire time, Sam sits with his chin propped on his hands, expressing what seems to be a genuine interest in table plans and florists who never email back and the astronomical price of profiteroles.

  Bored, I prod Audrey on the arm with my fork. She looks up from her chicken salad (no dressing), blinking as if I’ve just woken her up from a deep sleep. Poor Audrey, she isn’t allowed to eat anything fun. Ever since scary Steph took over as her coach, the fridge door is covered with laminated lists of all the things Audrey can and can’t eat.

  ‘All right, Nemo?’

  Nemo is my nickname for her. I haven’t used it for ages though.

  Audrey nods and smiles with her mouth closed, hiding the fixed braces she wears on both sets of teeth. She must have wiped off the lipstick when she popped to the loo earlier, because only a hint of pink remains. At thirteen, her face is still in that awkward phase, teetering on the verge of beauty as her features race to catch up with each other. It’s at odds with her powerful upper body; her racer-back vest revealing the tight network of muscles in her shoulders and back, physical evidence of all those hours spent in the pool.

  ‘So, Audrey,’ Sam says, as the waiter collects our plates. ‘Grace was telling me all about your swimming. It sounds incredible! When are you next competing? I’d love to see you in action.’

  God, he’s an arse-licker.

  Audrey takes a sip of water and tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. ‘I’m in the British Junior Championships in Newcastle the weekend after next,’ she offers.

  ‘There are going to be Olympic scouts there,’ Dad adds.

  ‘And because Audrey already swims for her county, she’ll get to wear a special green cap,’ Mum says, ‘which gives her a good chance of getting noticed by the Olympic scouts. Right, Audrey?’

  ‘In theory,’ Audrey says.

  Audrey is disgustingly modest. If I was her I’d wear my medals all the time, strutting around the place like Mr T.

  ‘Cool!’ Sam says. ‘Can we come along? Wave a banner?’

  I roll my eyes. Is this guy for real? It’s almost like Grace paid a visit to the perfect-boyfriend factory, programmed in her specifications, and out popped Sam.

  Audrey just pushes a piece of lettuce around her plate with a fork and blushes. I’d forgotten how shy my little sister gets around new people and for a second I wonder if she might have a crush on Sam. No matter how hard I quiz her about the cute boys in her year, she hardly ever reveals anything so it’s kind of hard to know.

  ‘Audrey won five silver and two bronze medals last year,’ Mum says. ‘But she’s going for gold this time round, aren’t you, sweetheart?’

  Audrey
gives up on the piece of runaway lettuce and plucks a forbidden breadstick from the basket in the centre of the table, breaking it in half. It crumbles between her fingers.

  ‘Hopefully,’ she says, smiling another closed-mouth smile and brushing the breadstick crumbs into a little mound on the tablecloth.

  Mum reaches across and squeezes Audrey’s shoulder. ‘My modest baby,’ she says. ‘We don’t know where she gets it from,’ she continues. ‘I’m terrified of water, and Jason’s an appalling swimmer.’

  ‘Now, hang on a second,’ Dad says. ‘I may be no Michael Phelps, but I’m not that bad.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ Grace says. She turns to Sam. ‘On holiday last year, Dad got “rescued” twice because the lifeguard on duty was so convinced he must be drowning.’

  Everyone laughs, even me. Dad’s doggy paddle is infamous.

  ‘Oi, watch it, you,’ Dad says, wagging his finger at Grace. ‘Or I might have to take back all those nice things I said about you just now.’

  Grace smiles, knowing he’ll do no such thing. Even though she’s the oldest, Grace is the biggest Daddy’s girl of us all.

  I can feel something vibrating on the floor near my feet.

  ‘Sam, could you pass me my handbag, please?’ Grace asks.

  Obediently he dives under the table, emerging a few seconds later with a triumphant smile on his face, like a deep-sea diver who’s just found a treasure chest at the bottom of the ocean.

  ‘Thanks, baby,’ Grace says, pulling the handbag onto her lap and rooting around for her phone. ‘Sorry,’ she says, switching off the beeping. ‘Folic-acid time. If I don’t set an alarm, I forget to take it.’

  She makes a proper performance out of opening the box and pushing out the pill from its foil casing.

  ‘What’s it for?’ Audrey asks.

  ‘It’s important for the development of a healthy foetus,’ Grace replies importantly.

  Oh God. Is this what every mealtime is going to be like from now on? Grace acting like she’s the first pregnant woman to ever walk the earth?

  ‘Hey,’ she adds. ‘If you’re really lucky you might be able to feel the baby kick tonight.’

  Audrey’s eyes light up and I have to resist the urge to pinch her.

  ‘Yeah,’ Sam says. ‘Bean’s a bit of a night owl.’

  ‘Bean?’ I say. ‘You’re going to call your baby “Bean”?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Grace says, laughing. ‘It’s just a nickname. We felt bad using “it” all the time.’

  ‘Although Bean Castle has a bit of a ring to it, don’t you think?’ Sam says.

  ‘Hang on a second,’ I say. ‘Rewind. Bean Castle?’

  ‘Yes,’ Sam says.

  ‘Your surname is Castle?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I almost choke on my gnocchi. ‘Sam Castle?’ I splutter.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Were your parents taking the piss?’

  ‘Mia, don’t be so rude,’ Mum says.

  ‘I’m not. I’m asking a question.’

  ‘Yes, a very rude question.’

  ‘It’s fine, honestly.’ Sam says. ‘Mia has a point; it is a pretty silly name. To be fair to my parents though, they always called me Samuel, so it wasn’t until I got a bit older and went to a nursery where everyone called me Sam, that the penny finally dropped.’

  ‘Well, I think it’s a very cute name,’ Grace says, nuzzling Sam’s neck like a needy cat.

  ‘The baby’s taking Castle as its surname then?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes,’ Grace says. ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m just surprised, that’s all. Aren’t you always banging on about being a feminist?’

  ‘I just think Bean Campbell-Richardson-Castle is a bit of a mouthful. It’s nothing to do with feminism.’

  ‘If that’s the case, why don’t you drop Castle and take Campbell-Richardson?’ I ask. ‘Why automatically take the bloke’s name?’

  Mum is glaring at me. I get the feeling this isn’t quite what she meant by ‘playing nice’.

  ‘Sam,’ she says, her voice artificially bright. ‘Do you have any brothers or sisters? I can’t believe we haven’t asked yet!’

  ‘Nope. Just me,’ Sam says.

  This surprises me. I thought posh people usually churned out three or four kids at least. Probably because they can afford to have nannies to do all the icky stuff like change nappies and mop up puke.

  ‘I’ve always wanted sisters though,’ Sam adds, smiling at Audrey and me in turn.

  Cue beams from Grace and nausea from me. I mean, how cheesy can you actually get?

  The waiter arrives to collect our plates, asking us all if we enjoyed our food. Sam starts harping on again about the gnocchi he had in Rome, before trying to talk to the waiter in Italian. Mum and Dad elbow each other, clearly impressed, while Grace beams at him adoringly. Meanwhile I try to resist the urge to vomit all over the white tablecloth.

  Mum leans across and whispers something in Dad’s ear.

  ‘I’ll be back in a mo,’ she says, standing up. ‘Don’t order dessert without me.’

  Sam asks Audrey more questions about her swimming, quizzing her on personal bests and favourite strokes. I zone out, taking my mobile out of my handbag and resting it on my lap. I’ve got another seventeen ‘likes’ for my latest Instagram post. It’s one of the shots from Friday night – me on Andrew’s trampoline, jumping in mid-air. Already six girls have begged me to tell them where my little black dress is from.

  Sorry, it’s vintage, I type. The last thing I want is half of Queen Mary’s rushing out to buy the same dress. Not that they’ll be able to wear it quite like me. A dress like that isn’t just about having a good body; it’s about attitude. Which is why I can make a twenty-quid-in-the-sales ASOS dress look one-of-a-kind.

  ‘Earth to Mia,’ Grace is saying.

  I glance up. Everyone’s looking in my direction, expectant expressions on their faces.

  ‘Sam just asked you a question,’ Grace says. She has her arms draped round his neck.

  ‘What?’ I asked, slipping my phone back into my handbag.

  ‘I was just curious about you, Mia,’ Sam says. ‘And about what your thing is.’ He smiles. His eyes are husky-dog blue, clear and uncomplicated.

  ‘My thing?’ I repeat slowly.

  ‘Yeah, your thing.’

  I hesitate. The rest of the table is looking at me like they’re genuinely curious to hear my response.

  ‘I don’t have a thing,’ I say eventually.

  ‘Oh, come on, you must,’ Sam says. ‘Everyone does.’

  ‘Well, I don’t,’ I reply.

  There’s an awkward pause.

  ‘What about your drawing?’ Grace suggests.

  Sam’s face lights up. ‘You’re an artist, Mia?’

  ‘No,’ I say, making a face. ‘Not even remotely.’

  ‘What are you talking about? You used to draw all the time,’ Grace says. She turns to Sam. ‘She used to draw these amazing comic strips.’

  ‘Exactly. Used to. I haven’t picked up a pencil crayon since I was about nine.’

  ‘Well, maybe you should get back into it.’ Again to Sam, ‘She’s really good.’

  ‘No, I’m not,’ I snap. ‘I didn’t even do Art for GCSE.’

  My sister sighs. ‘I wish you wouldn’t do yourself down, Mia.’

  ‘How can I do myself down over something I don’t even do any more? Look, just drop it, Grace.’

  She shrinks back in her seat, blinking her big old Bambi eyes.

  ‘Now steady on, Mia,’ Dad says. ‘Your sister’s only trying to be nice.’

  ‘Well, I wish she wouldn’t bother,’ I mutter.

  I grab for the bottle of prosecco, but Dad whips it out of reach.

  ‘Wow!’ Audrey gasps, distracting us all.

  She’s looking over my shoulder. I turn around. Mr Soprano is making his way towards the table holding a ricotta cheesecake (Grace’s favourite) with a lit sparkler stuck in the top, Mum scampe
ring along beside him looking very pleased with herself.

  Mr Soprano slides the cake in front of Grace. ‘Congratulations Grace and Sam’ is piped round the edge of the plate in blood-red coulis. I half expect the waiting staff to gather round the table with tambourines the way they do when it’s a customer’s birthday.

  ‘Oh my God, Mum!’ Grace cries. ‘This is amazing! Thank you!’

  Once she’s ascertained that the cheesecake is baked, and the cheese pasteurised and therefore safe to eat, she beams away as Dad snaps pictures of her and Sam slicing into it together like it’s their wedding cake or something. People at the surrounding tables smile and applaud.

  And I am invisible once more.

  8

  I’m woken up by Audrey’s 5.15 a.m. alarm call.

  ‘Sorry,’ she whispers, switching it off and climbing out of bed.

  In the dim light I watch as she scoops up her kit bag and slips out of the room, closing the door softly behind her. The floorboards creak as she crosses the landing and ducks into the bathroom, where she’ll change into her swimming costume, dinosaur onesie over the top, before heading downstairs to eat a bowl of porridge while Mum whizzes her up a rank-looking smoothie in the blender to drink in the car on the way to the pool. By 6 a.m. she’s in the water. She does this four mornings per week, plus sessions after school and at the weekends. On Wednesdays she rests. Providing she doesn’t have a competition or meet, she used to rest on Saturdays too, but over the past few months Steph has been calling her in for extra one-to-one work in the run-up to the British Junior Championships.

  I don’t know how she does it. If I had to get up at 5.15 a.m., I’d be a permanent zombie. Not to mention how bloody boring it must be spending all that time with your head under water, the same thoughts swirling round your brain. I’d go mad, I swear. Sometimes, though, I wonder how it must feel to love something that much. Mum keeps saying I’ll get my ‘calling’ one day, but I’m not so sure. If I had a calling, wouldn’t I know what it was by now?

  Unable to get back to sleep, I roll onto my back. I’m aware of Grace and Sam on the other side of the wall, sleeping literally inches away from me. I picture them spooning in Grace’s single bed, Sam’s body wrapped around hers, his chin nestling on her shoulder, his hands cupping her swollen belly, the two of them smiling in their sleep, not quite believing their luck.