‘You go to bed at nine o’clock!’ She pointed out the obvious. ‘If we have to be back by then we might as well not go out at all!’
‘You know what I mean.’ Ruthie gripped the Brillo pad and scrubbed harder.
‘If you need picking up, anywhere, anytime ...’ Her dad abandoned his newspaper, laying it flat on to the kitchen table, offering his services, as he always did. It was clear that despite his promotion to manager, now able to sit at a desk all day in the head office of the concrete company in Trowbridge, he missed the days of repping with his car as his chariot, the open road ahead and as many Little Chef breakfasts as he could wangle on expenses.
‘Thank you, Mr Brett, but I’ve got Mum’s car.’
She caught Tony’s gaze and rolled her eyes: how many times was he going to have to say it!
‘Well, the offer’s there, son. The Escort likes a run out, and I always have the keys within reach.’ As if to prove his point, her dad patted the pocket of his slacks, and they all heard the jangle of the keys.
‘He thinks more of that bloody car than he does of me!’ Ruthie huffed.
‘And I’ve told you countless times,’ her dad replied without missing a beat, ‘that if ever you want an oil change and a quick run around the block, I’m happy to oblige!’
‘Idiot!’ her mum spat, but her face still split with a smile that made her look almost girlish.
‘See you tomorrow. Love you.’ Remy walked over and kissed her mum’s cheek.
‘Love you too, and don’t accept drugs from strangers!’
‘What?’ Remy let out a peal of laughter. ‘I don’t ...’ She didn’t know how to respond. ‘I don’tdodrugs, Mum. I never have, theydon’t appeal to me in the slightest, but if Ididwant to do drugs, I cannot think of a single close friend or family member that might be able to supply them, which kind of suggests I’d have to get them from a stranger.’
‘You know what I mean.’ Her mum paused from her scrubbing.
‘I really don’t,’ she confessed.
‘It was on my mind, that’s all. They were talking about it in the hairdressers’. Mrs Butterworth was saying that her son lives in London, and everyone there is taking drugs.’
‘Everyone in London?’ she asked for Tony’s benefit, knowing it would make him laugh.
‘Yes, pretty much.’
Even her dad shook his head and returned to his paper.
‘I’m just thinking about the millions of people who live in London, including the Royal family, Margaret Thatcher, Denis Thatcher, the Bishop of Westminster, Felicity Kendal.’ She could go on.
‘Well, obviously none of them!’ Ruthie tutted.
‘But everyoneapartfrom them?’ Remy knew she was winding her mother up, but it was too ridiculously rewarding not to.
‘Probably.’ Her mother shrugged. ‘And drive carefully, Tony.’
‘I always do.’
‘You read about those kids, don’t you, who are larking about in the car, and the next thing you know their mothers are laying plastic-wrapped bouquets by the side of a tree that came at them from nowhere on a bend.’
‘Erm ...’ Tony stared at her mum, clearly as lost for words as she was.
‘Bye, Mum!’ Remy grabbed her friend by the sleeve, and they left the house, both committed to look out for trees on bends that came out of nowhere.
‘I love Felicity Kendal,’ Tony sighed as he got behind the wheel.
‘Everyone loves Felicity Kendal,’ she pointed out as she adjusted the front seat of his mum’s Allegro.
‘True.’ He turned the key and the little engine shuddered to life.
‘A ball?’ Remy scoffed; it had been on her mind, and she changed the subject with ease. ‘What does it even mean? A ball!’
