Discover millions of ebooks, audiobooks, and so much more with a free trial

Only $11.99/month after trial. Cancel anytime.

Jimmy and Karen
Jimmy and Karen
Jimmy and Karen
Ebook388 pages4 hours

Jimmy and Karen

Rating: 0 out of 5 stars

()

Read preview

About this ebook

Jimmy and Karen recently hit #1 in the UK YA LGBT Amazon chart! It’s the funny, quirky story of two 16 year old best friends, Jimmy (who is gay) and Karen (who is not). UK readers have fallen in love with Jimmy and Karen and have been intrigued by the story of their entanglement in the peace movement, the spies that are watching them and their search for new friends, new boyfriends... some excitement!

“Jimmy and Karen, each superbly and humorously characterised, led me (whilst pushing and shoving each other) back to a time and society which I had all but forgotten, bringing it all alive again” Amazon reviewer

“...well-plotted and the different strands of the storyline handled well, it was the realization of the characters and their dialogue that really shone for me – I love Jimmy and Karen and really enjoyed their funny, snappy chat – great fun” Amazon reviewer

“Left me wanting more, always the sign of a damn good read” – Amazon reviewer

LanguageEnglish
PublisherPhilip Andrea
Release dateApr 10, 2015
ISBN9781310471650
Jimmy and Karen

Related to Jimmy and Karen

Related ebooks

Related articles

Reviews for Jimmy and Karen

Rating: 0 out of 5 stars
0 ratings

0 ratings0 reviews

What did you think?

Tap to rate

Review must be at least 10 words

    Book preview

    Jimmy and Karen - Philip Andrea

    Jimmy and Karen

    By

    Philip Andrea

    © Philip Andrea 2014

    Smashwords Edition, License Notes:

    This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

    For Magoo, Jodie and Lucie

    1.

    Jimmy just about managed to sneak into assembly in the opening moments, squeezing himself onto the end of a row of wooden benches. The headmaster seemed to be limbering up for the long haul - shaking his arms and stretching - before looking at his watch and turning to face the hall. As the headmaster began to speak to his temporarily captive, but largely uninterested audience, Jimmy noticed Karen was sat at the end of the bench two rows in front of him. Surreptitiously stretching his arm around the person in front of him, he extended a finger and prodded her gently in the ribs. She turned around sharply, irritated.

    Like your hair today, he whispered. Karen mouthed the words Piss off. Karen had bleached her hair a little while ago, with Jimmy’s encouragement and active participation, and the dark brown roots had now grown out a good inch. Jimmy genuinely did like it in its current two-tone state - admiring its trashy and couldn’t-care-less effect. Not an effect he sought for his own look, which was also two-tone, but he confined that to his clothes. Today he had on a white Fred Perry tennis shirt, a black cardigan and black drainpipe trousers, which he had persuaded Mrs Posner from the upstairs flat to take in, narrowing the legs by an extra inch. His semi-afro hair was cropped short, restraining its tendency to fluff up in a way he found hard to control.

    Karen began each school day wearing two skirts. The outer had the full approval of her fearsome mother: unfashionable, two inches below the knee and pleated. But this dowdy number was shrugged off and stuffed into her bag just as soon as Karen was a sufficient distance from her house. Underneath was a tighter black pencil skirt, two inches above the knee - the minimum length for school purposes. Karen had spent a great deal of time and effort bouncing between boundaries of respectability, trying (but usually failing) to satisfy either her mother’s or the school’s demands. But she just couldn’t sustain it and more and more just didn’t bother. Hence, the bleached hair incident and, inevitably, the smoking. Karen had recently announced that she would never give up smoking because she thought smoking kept the weight off and she would rather die of cancer than be fat - an attitude Jimmy wholeheartedly supported. He had no difficulty with his weight and ate what he wanted. He wouldn’t describe himself as muscly, but had currently settled for wiry, which he hoped was better than skinny.

    The headmaster’s voice burbled on until it reached its banal and vaguely threatening conclusion. The life crackled back into the audience and they pushed and bumped their way out of the swing doors of the assembly hall, dispersing into the corridors. Jimmy hurried to catch up Karen.

    I do like your hair. Really.

    Don’t take the piss, Jimmy.

    I’m not! It’s sort of.. punk. I like it.

    But I’m not a punk, am I? And I’m not going to a fancy dress party either, am I? So, thanks, but no thanks for the fashion tips.

    It was subtle, but Karen had got quite a good dig in there with the fancy dress reference and they both knew it. A couple of weekends ago Jimmy’s carefully researched Luke Skywalker outfit at Leigh Smith’s 16th birthday party had been widely and deliberately misinterpreted as Barry Manilow. The wound had not yet fully healed.

    Unexpectedly, Karen grabbed Jimmy by the arm and guided him out of the crowd.

    Come with me into the bogs - I want to show you something ... in private.

    Like anyone’s not seen it all before.

    Stop being stupid. It’s important. She hustled him into the loos and into a cubicle, shushing his objections as she locked the door. As she pulled up the back of her blouse, Jimmy noticed she had abandoned varnishing her nails half way through. She would no doubt claim this was deliberate, but he wasn’t about to ask her.

    Is there anything on my back ... next to my bra strap on my shoulder blade?

    Erm... flab? He was not quite ready to be nice.

    Shut up, you idiot. Is it a mole or a spot or something? It keeps catching on the strap.

    Jimmy touched it reluctantly and briefly. Yes. It’s a mole. Just a mole. Everyone’s got them.

    Well it’s just appeared out of nowhere. They’re not supposed to do that - I’ve seen it in an advert. Karen seemed genuinely anxious and Jimmy’s attitude softened.

    So, go to the doctor if you’re worried.

    I’m not going to him. He’s all...breathy... and he’s got unnaturally red, slobbery lips... ugh! She pulled her wrinkled blouse back down. You’d probably fancy him.

    Jimmy ignored this. She knew perfectly well what high standards he had. Go to the School Nurse then.

    What School Nurse? There isn’t one. We’re not on telly, Jimmy. Oh, never mind - let’s get out of here. We haven’t got time for this. Karen picked up her bag - a canvas army surplus one - and held her finger to her lips.

    I’ll see if the coast is clear, she whispered. She slid back the aluminium lock, opened the door a crack and peered out. She opened it fully and slipped out on tip-toe, waving frantically at Jimmy to follow her, which he did, giggling at the stupidity of it. They emerged back into the corridor and tried to compose themselves, smirking and bumping shoulders as they hurried along.

    What have we got now, asked Karen, Art? I hate Mrs. Knapman. Art teachers are supposed to be all cool and liberal, aren’t they? She’s just Miss Unbelievably Dowdy Boring Cow. I mean, have you seen those shoes she wears? Where the hell do they even sell them?

    They’re made specially, Karen. She’s disabled.

    Karen clapped her hand over her mouth and laughed. No, she’s not! She’s not is she? I can’t believe I’ve never noticed that. I’m such an idiot! She’s not is she? Are you sure?

    She’s got a stick. What did you think it was for, you idiot?

    I don’t know. I thought maybe it was an Art thing or something. Anyway, surely they could make more stylish shoes than that? and she burst out laughing again.

    Jimmy noticed Simon hurry past them and go up the stairs to the Art Room. Simon was brand new that term. He had appeared magically (to Jimmy, at least) one Monday assembly - rosy-cheeked, clean and blond, he seemed far too wholesome and pure for the grimy 1960s concrete holding-centre that called itself ‘Parkwood Academy’ (there was one beleaguered tree on a sad patch of grass). Apparently, his parents couldn’t manage the fees anymore at his private school - there had been some kind of financial scandal involving his Dad and his Mum had run off soon after with an Italian. So now, with his posh voice and lined blazer, he had been dropped into a new life of no friends, but plenty of potential enemies. Lord Haw-Hee-Haw was about the kindest nickname he’d got so far - Gaylord weirdo was his usual label.

    Jimmy and Karen had of course zeroed in on him straight away. But they had had no success. Jimmy thought he would have been glad of some friendly attention, but in fact it seemed the opposite was true. Look, you needn’t bother with me, you know, I’ll be back at proper school in a few weeks, he had said to them. Needn’t? Jimmy had thought, who the hell says ‘needn’t’ and they hadn’t bothered him much after that, but Jimmy at least had not yet written him off as a ‘potential’.

    Art, yes. Life Drawing today, said Jimmy.

    Karen clapped her hands. Life drawing! Yeeeeess. Right. If it’s a man, right, now listen, we’ve got to try and make him get a hard-on. You too. He could be gay.

    I’m not going through that again. I’m sure Knapman realised we were doing that last time - she kept giving me those piggy looks, like your mum does. It didn’t work anyway.

    She didn’t notice and you were rubbish - that’s why it didn’t work. All you did was just lick your lips a bit, you looked like you were retarded or had chapped lips or something. Or both.

    Thanks. And how do you think you looked licking your pencil every 5 seconds? It was like a low budget Carry On film. Very, very low budget.

    Karen recoiled in mock offence. I can’t believe you just said that! And after I’ve just shown you my skin cancer, too! She shook her head in sad disbelief. I hope you never, ever get a boyfriend - and if you do, if by some miracle you do, I’m going to convert him back again, just to spite you. Although she was joking, Karen had a great deal of confidence in her powers of attraction.

    What - like you’ve converted me back? Jimmy sneered, smiling.

    Well, Jimmy, number one, I wouldn’t want to convert you because you’re such a fucking twat - unless you suddenly got really rich and were dying - and, number two, she cast her eyes downward to his crotch, I’ve seen it, and it’s really not worth the bother.

    They entered the Art Room, which was currently displaying an exhibition titled Happy New Year? by the Lower Sixth Art class. Most of the pictures were predictable and unmemorable, but two stood out. One was Karen’s slightly random contribution of a man singing - which was suspiciously like the poster of Billy Idol in her bedroom - and the other was of a heavily pregnant woman, apparently picking her nose (it wasn’t clear) and holding a lit cigarette. That was by Brian. Despite a few not unreasonable questions, Mrs. Knapman had refused to let him explain it to the class.

    No, Brian, no. Never explain... never... Mrs. Knapman began in her slightly dramatic Welsh accent. Whatever people take from your picture... she looked around the class dubiously, ..if anything... is their problem and their reward. She had given it an A++ and pride of place in the exhibition.

    Brian was another ‘potential’ for Jimmy and Karen. He’d been in a different class to them until the sixth form. He wasn’t like the other kids - and in a way they both found intriguing. His problem was his academic success. Despite his indifference, the teachers loved him and couldn’t praise him enough, which they clearly didn’t appreciate was a powerful shove in the direction of social exclusion. He just wasn’t the type, however, or perhaps didn’t care enough, to try to redress the balance in the minds of his fellow pupils. He had a few friends and that seemed to be sufficient for him. Some of them Karen and Jimmy thought were ‘acceptables’, so that was a good sign from their point of view.

    Jimmy was both relieved and disappointed that it wasn’t a male model. Relieved that he wouldn’t be forced to participate in Karen’s hard-on inducement scheme and disappointed that he wouldn’t get to look at a naked man for the best part of an hour and a half. The rest of the class were already setting up their easels and the woman model stood around in her dressing gown, bare footed and blowing the smoke from her cigarette half-heartedly in the general direction of the open fire exit. They had drawn her a few times before. She was about thirty five, so quite old as far as they were concerned. Generally, she sat slumped in her chair, breaking the pose to cough violently from time to time. Mrs. Knapman pursed her lips patiently at these points.

    Karen and Jimmy began to set up. Mrs. Knapman came over and addressed the model.

    Now, Margaret, we’re going to try a different pose today. Now... come over here and we’ll have you standing with your leg up on the stool... Yes.. that’s right...just leave your dressing gown on the floor.. and put both your hands behind your head like this. Mrs. Knapman demonstrated, staring up at the ceiling with a wistful, faraway look on her face. Karen suppressed a snort of laughter. Margaret reluctantly adopted the pose, her pale skin goose-pimply, although it wasn’t entirely obvious to Jimmy - if this was supposed to be a natural pose - at what point in the day a woman might stand almost naked with one leg up on a chair and her hands behind her head.

    I’m going to talk to her. Get to know her a bit, Karen announced suddenly with a serious look, picking up her charcoal stick, all the famous artists knew their models intimately - I saw a documentary about it. Her current plan was to be a famous artist or, at the very least, a very cool one.

    Yeah, well, go for it. Talk to her. Jimmy replied indifferently.

    Well... I will... Karen put her charcoal down, checking that Mrs. Knapman wasn’t paying attention, Er... Margaret... excuse me? Could you, you know, tell us something about yourself?

    Margaret stiffened slightly in her pose. What? What do you mean?

    Well, what else do you do? What’s your job?

    This. Modelling. Semi-nude. For you lot. Posing.

    There were a few tuts as she said this from some of the more serious types - like Helen Silverman, whose dad was, according to her, a well known photographer, although Jimmy was pretty sure he’d seen him photographing the wedding of a friend of Jimmy’s mum.

    That’s it?

    That’s it. I can earn up to £15 a week on top of the dole. Keeps me in fags and it’s pretty straightforward.

    You’re on the dole? How much do you get?

    Just a little too late, Margaret stopped herself from turning to look at Karen. £37.80 a week dole, £12 for this session and my tube fare. There was more tutting and Helen Silverman looked pained.

    Great. Thanks for that. Karen sat back in her seat, excited. Nudity, smoking and money for nothing! I could do that. Imagine what my mum would think? she said turning back to Jimmy, thrilled at the prospect.

    You would so not be a nude model. You’re too paranoid.

    Well, make your mind up - last week you said I was an exhibitionist when you got a flash of my nipple for a bloody micro-second.

    Yes. In Sainsbury’s.

    Brian, who was nearby, laughed quietly, overhearing. Karen turned to him with a raised eyebrow.

    2.

    The Literature Section had undertaken their job reasonably well, as far as he could tell. A quick glance over the typed index to the grey-marbled Lever Arch file indicated that the newsletters seemed relatively complete and well-ordered. He noticed a possible gap for October 1981, but it didn’t concern him unduly. From his point of view this type of information was only background material - important, but he knew he needed specifics, not just diatribe. The file was divided into sections on: Peace, Equality, Violence against Women, Abortion, Northern Ireland and, his finger stopped on the tab, Female Sanitary Protection. He paused, trying to imagine the possible content of a whole section on sanitary protection.

    Normally, he strongly believed in reading a file methodically from beginning to end because it reduced the chances of his overlooking something, but after a brief mental tussle, curiosity got the better of him and he reluctantly turned to that section. He zeroed in on an article titled Being a woman is not a luxury which had been extracted from the Camden Group’s newsletter, but intrigue soon turned to disappointment when, having read a couple of indignantly written paragraphs, he realised it was a campaign against VAT on tampons which were not, according to its author, a luxury, but a necessity. Despite his distaste for the subject, or perhaps due to it, he couldn’t disagree with that.

    As he read on, he wondered what his wife would think about it. Not that he would ever actually ask her. He wasn’t even entirely sure if she still menstruated. How she protected herself in that department was certainly never discussed and, although he suspected that at 48 she might have put her menstruating days behind her, he hadn’t noticed a single change in her behaviour and noticing such things was his stock in trade. She seemed no less irritated by him than she ever had been, which he had previously confidently put down to her time of the month. Now, he could not be so sure. He considered looking through her bedside cabinet drawers for physical evidence, then dismissed the idea. He realised he just didn’t care either way.

    He settled back into his chair and turned back to the front of the file to start reading through properly, feeling a slight sense of relief as he did so. As he immersed himself, pausing to underline certain sections, making short notes in the margin, he began to hear these women’s voices: determined, angry, calm, sometimes spiritual, accusing, reasonable, unreasonable, excited. Some of the newsletters had grainy black and white pictures and he began to be able to put faces to these voices too. Smiling, curly haired women, holding placards, candles, occasionally a child’s hand. Shouting women with clenched fists raised. He tried and failed to imagine his wife amongst these women in their jeans, overalls, printed T-shirts, baggy jumpers and masculine boots. One woman, about his wife’s age as far as he could tell, was pictured wearing just a thin cotton vest, the outline of her nipples underneath briefly distracting him from learning why she was chained to some railings outside a factory.

    He would have called them ‘women’s libbers’, but he didn’t see that term being used much in the current literature. He was surprised to see that even the words woman and women were being replaced by womun and womyn or wimmin, so unbearable were the words man and men. This seemed relevant to the lesbian separatists he was now reading about. He really didn’t understand the motivation for that. He and his wife lived pretty separate lives. These days their paths hardly ever seemed to cross except at mealtimes and only then when he wasn’t out working. So he didn’t see why you might need to go so far as being a lesbian to be a separatist. It all seemed a bit unnecessary to him, which - coupled with dangerous - pretty much summed up his attitude to radicalism of any sort. He believed in the slippery slope. It was real.

    He knew, of course, that not everyone lived like he and Pamela did. He saw close, happy couples, their lives intertwined. Occasionally, he observed them professionally, when a job demanded it. But more often than not in his experience the cracks and divisions in the relationship soon became apparent. It brought to mind Bob and Vera who lived next door. They had always seemed very happy together, very close, or at least he (and everyone else) had thought so. They holidayed every year in Italy and always came back bronzed, with beaming smiles. Then, to everyone’s bemused horror, Bob confessed that Vera had run off for some undisclosed reason and that was that. Now he saw Bob and his boy moping around the house, barely making a sound except for the scraping of chairs and plates. After that he doubted Bob and Vera had ever been any happier than he and Pamela were, despite appearances. Probably less so.

    At his wife’s suggestion he had invited Bob out for a consoling drink. They had been neighbours for twenty years and he liked to think that he wasn’t completely inhuman. He wasn’t one for the pub, however, so he had wanted to keep it short, but Bob plainly had other ideas and droned on and on about Vera. After a few vain attempts to steer the subject to something less painful, he had given up, switched off and sat there watching Bob’s lips burbling away, stopping only to take an occasional sip of beer. It was a pleasant feeling for him just to sit back, not to pay close attention, to look for the give away glance or the defensive body language. Instead, he had just sat there with what he imagined was a sympathetic smile, giving an occasional nod, perhaps with a meaningful pursing of the lips, running his finger round the top of his whiskey glass, while Bob babbled on, now worrying about his son in some respect.

    In a way, he reflected before he turned back to reviewing the literature, separatism kept him and his wife together. It was only rarely she required him to listen to her, usually concerning some practicality of living together, and she didn’t complain about his long and anti-social hours at work. She never had, not even once and it had always been the same in thirty years of marriage. Countless dinners had been ruined or missed altogether, rare social outings had been cancelled at the last minute, birthdays had gone unmarked. But it all seemed to work well for him and, to the best of his knowledge, for Pamela. He certainly hadn’t noticed her chaining herself to any railings. She had put some new curtains up in the kitchen last week. He was reasonably confident that such activities weren’t the sign of a wholly discontented wife.

    After a few minutes scanning through the next page, he sat up straight and marked an asterisk in the margin of the newsletter. There she was, the Subject. No photo, but she was listed as a contact for the Camden section of the Women’s Peace Group. He carefully wrote down the telephone number - he would check it later against existing details to confirm that she wasn’t using more than one - adding the date of the article and the name of the publication in brackets.

    3.

    Jimmy and Karen were taking their time getting home from school. They strolled along Camden High Street, which was the long way round, but Karen needed more time to smoke and look at the punks installed at various intervals in spiky tartan and black clumps. A passing van driver tooted his horn and leered at Karen, presumably not seriously thinking a sixteen year old girl might be interested in a balding, fifty year old plumber, but who knew? Certainly not Jimmy, who found the way men related to women unfathomable and mostly counter-productive.

    Jimmy thought he got on with girls relatively well, although he did not think that this was anything to do with being gay, as most of the girls at school didn’t know, as far as he knew. He had to admit that some of them might strongly suspect, perhaps, but thought they couldn’t possibly know for sure. He also knew from recent experience that some girls clearly found it off-putting.

    I’ve no use for them. Gays. They’re no use to me, Helen had announced imperiously, one wet break-time in the cloakroom. Picking at her nail varnish, she gave Jimmy a brief but deliberate sideways glance through narrowed eyes. Jimmy tried to look indifferent and discretely put down Karen’s copy of Jackie.

    Karen looked at her with a practiced contempt. You idiot, Helen. What the hell is that supposed to mean... use? The assembled group bristled with the excitement of a brewing row. Not only is that prejudiced, Karen continued, but the idea that you only have use for men you can shag is a bit much. You? I mean, 99.9% of men would probably puke at the idea of shagging you anyway, gay or not. You stupid fat bitch.

    Helen’s close mates gasped, but a few others in the room laughed openly.

    What did you just call me? Helen asked in disbelief, her mouth contorted in anger.

    You heard. Karen kept her arms folded.

    Yeah, well I suppose it’s a relief to hang out with a queer if you’re a total slag - bit of a rest for you, isn’t it?

    At this point, Jimmy knew he was probably supposed to step in and defend Karen, or himself, but he was a bit afraid of joining in an argument which debated whether he was gay or not. Luckily, Helen immediately stood up and her cohorts made what was probably supposed to be a semi-dignified exit, so he was spared a confrontation.

    He kind of agreed with Helen, in a way. Not in calling Karen a slag, which was unfair (even though he called her that all the time), but Karen did use her friendship with him as a safe haven from the general turmoil that always seem to accompany her relationships with boys. But Jimmy didn’t care about that. In fact he liked it. He was happy enough that that was what friends were for - a place of safety. She was the same for him - although he couldn’t claim to have had any relationships yet.

    They neared Jimmy’s place, a basement flat in a converted four storey Victorian house. Not Council, like quite a few others in his street, but a housing co-op place his mum had managed to get soon after Jimmy was born and his father had disappeared back to Ghana. The fact that it was a housing co-op seemed to put Jimmy and his mum one rung above the Council tenants on the social ladder, although Jimmy couldn’t see why. It was still a small, slightly damp, crappy little flat, with a seriously pathetic communal garden at the back that no one ever went in except to burn things.

    You coming in, Karen? Come in for a bit.

    Karen sighed and took a long drag on her cigarette. All right. For a bit. The Cow probably won’t be back home yet. I think she’s trying to get a shag off the Treasurer of the Tory Club.

    Puke! Shut up Karen, I don’t want to think about your mum shagging!

    You don’t want to think about it? What about me? And I get told off by her just for talking to boys - not you, obviously - while she’s groping red-faced men in grey slacks after her third sherry. Revolting.

    I think it would be nice for you to have a new Dad, a nice respectable type from the Conservative Club, Jimmy teased her as they walked down the steps to his front door, especially that one with the tongue who looks at your tits.

    God, you’re disgusting, Jimmy. Karen pulled the bottom of her blouse down, shivering at the memory.

    Jimmy opened the door and they stepped into the gloomy light of the hallway. Voices from the kitchen indicated his mum had company. A gravelly laugh immediately identified the visitor as Mrs. Posner from the top (and nicest) flat. She had escaped from Czechoslovakia in the 1950s - Jimmy wasn’t sure what from exactly, but soldiers with guns had been involved. His mum called her Jimmy’s Jewish Grandmother, although Mrs. Posner in fact had a pretty deep-seated repulsion for religion. Explosive, at times. She had adopted his mum when she had first moved into the basement flat with Jimmy, helping out with money and baby-sitting. She had certainly been a much better grandmother than his real one, who rarely left Winchester to come up to London unless she needed to go to John Lewis or a matinee with her W.I. group. A pound note twice a year in his Christmas and birthday cards was about all Jimmy had come to expect of her. Nobody knew who his grandmother in Ghana was, if she was still alive.

    Jimmy and Karen entered the kitchen into a fug of cigarette smoke. Mrs. Posner put her cigarette down and stood with her arms wide open, beaming. She wore a long, belted cardigan over a brown polo neck, with a long, beaded necklace, tied into a knot near the bottom.

    Jimmy! Here’s my little, beautiful chocolate boy! Come and give me kiss. Jimmy dutifully gave her a peck on the cheek. And your girlfriend is here too. Hello Katy.

    Karen. Hello Mrs. Posner. We’re just friends, actually. How are you since yesterday?

    Just friends! You cheeky girl. We know don’t we, Sarah? Mrs. Posner turned to Jimmy’s mum with a conspiratorial smile. We know all about just friends! and she laughed her gravelly laugh once again. Katy, you are too young to marry my boy, to take him away from me and his mother. You’re both too young. You’re not taking him away from us, are you?

    One day I will, Mrs. Posner, one day. Karen looked at Jimmy adoringly and stroked his hair. You don’t mind do you, Sarah? If I take your son from you?

    Jimmy’s mum laughed, shaking her head. She liked Karen. Not at all, Karen. I wasn’t going to tell you this, but I’ve been saving my grandmother’s wedding ring for you. It... it will be yours one day, and she pretended to wipe a tear from the corner of her eye on the sleeve of her blue and cream stripy top, which Jimmy had now seen her wearing for at least the last three days.

    Karen put her hand to her chest. Oh Sarah... Mummy... can I call you Mummy?

    Jimmy dumped his bag on the table with a thud. All right, all right, that’s enough of that crap. Mum, how about making your fantasy daughter-in-law here and me a cup of tea? Have we got any biscuits?

    "No, we haven’t and make it your bloody self, you’re not ten years old. Here, empty this ashtray for me, while you’re at it.’

    God, Mum, it’s not like you’ve got anything else to do. I wish I could sit around all day long smoking the Child Benefit. He grabbed the ashtray and dumped the contents in the swing bin.

    Mrs. Posner stood again, shaking her head. "With three women in the house, the boy has to cook for himself? I’ll make some tea. One day Sarah, when he’s left you all alone, you’ll wish he was here

    Enjoying the preview?
    Page 1 of 1