How Could You Do This To Me, Mum?

  For Margie and Richard with love

  First published in 1996

  by Piccadilly Press Ltd, 5 Castle Road,

  London NW1 8PR

  This edition published 2006

  Text copyright © Rosie Rushton, 1996

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

  The right of Rosie Rushton to be identified as Author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN: 1 85340 843 3 (trade paperback)

  EAN: 978 185340 408434

  eISBN: 978 1 84812 325 0

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by Bookmarque Ltd

  Typeset by M Rules, London

  Cover design by Sue Hellard and Simon Davis

  Set in Bembo, Courier and GilliansHand

  www.piccadillypress.co.uk

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter One

  Ring In the New!

  NEW YEAR RESOLUTIONS

  1. I resolve not to think about Jon Joseph ever again.

  2. I resolve to stop biting my fingernnails.

  3. I resolve to finish writing my novel.

  Signed

  Laura A. Turnbull

  Laura gazed at her list of New Year resolutions and picked up her pen. She’d have to squeeze in another one – the most important.

  4. I resolve to help put an end to the persecution of our planet, the atrocities against animal life and the waste of our natural resources.

  She surveyed the last sentence with satisfaction. It had a nice ring to it, as befitted one who, in the not too distant future, would be hailed as the new literary sensation of her age.

  From now on, she told herself, pinning the amended list back on the cork tile that served as her noticeboard, life was going to be different. Daniel had made her see the light.

  As she rummaged through her chest of drawers in search of her games kit, she thought about Daniel Browning, who lived next door to them in their new house in Berrydale. He had turned up on the doorstep on Boxing Day, proffering an invitation for them all to go to his parents’ Punch and Pickings party on New Year’s Eve. Normally Laura wouldn’t have been seen dead going out socially with her mum and Melvyn, but she decided that by going next door she wouldn’t have to spend the evening at The Stomping Ground with the others. Jemma, who was head over heels in love with Rob, had told her that Jon had invited Sumitha, and Chelsea had talked of nothing but the Gorgeous Guy ever since he’d arrived to stay with the Gees on Christmas Eve. The thing Laura couldn’t bear was the thought of being the only one there without a boyfriend. And Daniel did have a bum to die for.

  Stuffing her games socks into her kit bag, she thought back to the party. Halfway through the evening, when the parents had reached that silly stage that follows four glasses of rum punch, Laura had escaped the humiliation of watching Melvyn doing his Elton John impression by fleeing to the kitchen where the buffet was laid out and pinching a couple of chicken tikka bites.

  ‘You’re not actually going to eat those, are you?’ Daniel had demanded, appearing at her elbow with a dish of vegetable samosas.

  ‘Pardon?’ she had replied.

  ‘Meat,’ Daniel had hissed. ‘Don’t you know what happens to battery hens? Come with me.’

  He had dragged her off to his den, and that was when she saw the posters. Everywhere. Animal Aid, Save The Whale, Protect Our Forests, Compassion In World Farming – all over the walls.

  He had grabbed a pile of leaflets and thrust them into her hands: horrible pictures of chickens cooped up by the dozen in tiny, dark cages, pigs being artificially fattened and calves tethered so tightly they couldn’t move their necks.

  Laura had gulped. ‘I know, it’s awful,’ she’d admitted. ‘But then, me giving up meat won’t make any difference, will it?’ Laura was very partial to her food.

  Daniel had slammed his fist on the desk top.

  ‘It’s because too many people take that attitude that these sort of atrocities are allowed to go on! It just makes me so angry . . .’

  ‘What’s that?’ Laura had interrupted, pointing to the corner of the room where a large piece of cardboard was stuck on top of a broom handle.

  ‘It’s supposed to be a placard for a demo outside Leehampton Research Labs in a couple of weeks,’ he had said. ‘They use animals for all sorts of terrible tests – squirting shampoo in their eyes and stuff. Only I can’t think of anything snappy to write on it,’ he’d added dolefully.

  Laura had closed her eyes, screwed up her nose and thought.

  ‘How about, Do you really want looks an animal has died for,’ she’d suggested. ‘You know, a play on she’s got looks to die for?’

  ‘That’s brilliant!’ he’d said admiringly. ‘Hey, why don’t you come along to the demo? We can do with all the support we can get.’

  I might just go, thought Laura, hurling a crumpled net-ball skirt to the floor. After all, Daniel was rather cute, with that thick blond hair that had a slight wave and made you want to run your fingers through it and such velvety brown eyes. He was at Sixth Form college doing resits, which would be one up on having a boyfriend still at school. At least by being out on a Saturday morning her mother wouldn’t be able to persuade her to go on the inevitable shopping trip to Mothercare. She needed some compensation for having a mother who was getting to look more like a hippo every day, and spent her time reading leaflets on breastfeeding and going ga-ga over mobiles of fluffy lambs. She remembered Daniel’s remark at the part
y.

  ‘Your mum – I mean, she’s not preggers, is she?’ he had said.

  ‘Mmm,’ Laura had murmured, pulling a face. ‘It’s due in March.’

  ‘Woah!’ Daniel had said. ‘She’s a bit old for that sort of stuff, isn’t she? Is your dad pleased?’

  ‘Melvyn’s not my dad.’

  ‘Oh, second marriage?’ Daniel had asked.

  ‘No, they’re not married, they just live together.’

  Daniel had pulled a face.

  ‘So what’s wrong with that? And anyway, they’re getting married soon,’ Laura had snapped.

  ‘OK, OK, keep your hair on.’ Daniel had laughed gently. ‘I’m not fussed either way. Except, of course, that we could do without people adding to the population explosion, married or not.’ He’d taken a swig of cider. ‘Mind you, if the new baby has your looks, it will be a stunner,’ he’d added, grinning at her.

  Remembering the compliment, Laura sighed. Jon had never called her a stunner. Stop it, she admonished herself severely. Remember Resolution Number One. Jon is history. Jon is finished with. So why did she keep thinking about him? Why, every morning for the first week of term, had she peered out of the school bus in the hope of catching sight of him? And when she had spotted him, why had her stomach lurched uncontrollably?

  Well, from now on she would turn her attention to something really worthwhile. Laura Turnbull would start saving the planet.

  Chapter Two

  Chelsea Does Some Star-Gazing

  Over in Thorburn Crescent, Chelsea Gee’s thoughts were on a lesser plane. She was sprawled out on the bed, trying to sort out her own private world with the help of Yell! magazine’s Stars for the New Year supplement.

  PSYCHIC SANDY REVEALS WHAT’S IN YOUR STARS THIS NEW YEAR

  AQUARIUS (21 January – 19 February)

  You’re feeling a bit hard done by right now but don’t despair; life cannot always be one long party and things will hot up again soon as you make new friends and share new experiences. In fact, this could be your year! But be sure not to bite off more than you can chew; not everything is what it seems. In the meantime, count your blessings and remember you’re surrounded by people who love you – so shake off those doldrums and be happy!

  ‘So what does she know?’ mumbled Chelsea, hurling the magazine across the room. She knew she should be getting her kit ready for school and finishing her French assignment, but since whatever she did these days was bound to go wrong, she had decided not to bother doing anything at all.

  Life, she thought, was the pits. It was all very well for Psychic Sandy to say count your blessings, but she wasn’t a practically-fifteen-year-old whose parents had not only said they couldn’t afford to buy her an iPod for her birthday but had even refused to let her have a party. They said it was because they’d only just had Christmas and money was tight and she would have to be content with going out for a meal.

  Not that there was much point having a party when you didn’t have a boyfriend. She still got knots in her stomach thinking about how Rob had gone off with Jemma at the end of last term. He’d had the nerve to tell her she came on too strong. Just because she had a bit of verve. They were only one week into the new term and already Chelsea was sick of hearing Jemma go on about what film Rob had taken her to and how great he was before saying, ‘Oh, sorry, Chelsea, I didn’t mean to upset you!’

  Psychic Sandy hadn’t got a clue – the fact was, no one round here loved her any more. Not only had Rob deserted her, but her mum was too busy writing newspaper features and fronting this new radio phone-in show – Live Lines to Ginny – and having hot flushes and bad moods all over the place to take any notice of Chelsea. Except to nag, of course. She always had time for that. As for her father, he had brought further shame and ignominy on her by decorating the roof of his soup kitchen van with two giant wooden spoons on which he painted the soups of the day in lurid fluorescent letters and drove round town like some common street vendor. It wasn’t as if he made loads of money; that might have made the shame slightly more bearable.

  When Geneva had phoned from Mombasa on Christmas Day, the parents had been ecstatic and spent the whole afternoon saying how well she had done, and what a worker she was and wasn’t she enterprising going to Africa on her own? When Warwick said that his old bike was falling to bits and he needed something to get to lectures on, they had handed him a cheque and told him to buy a new one. But when Chelsea wanted something so badly, what happened? ‘Money doesn’t grow on trees, Chelsea’, ‘Join the real world, Chelsea.’ They hate me, she thought miserably.

  Her life was just a joke to them. When she’d told them about the split with Rob, all her mother had said was, ‘There’ll be plenty more fish in the sea,’ which was a pretty useless comment coming from someone who was supposed to be The Listening Mum with the Ear of the Young. And her dad had gone on about her having her whole life ahead of her and not wanting to fill her head with boy nonsense. What did they know?

  Even her plans for wowing Guy, the gorgeous six foot hunk from California whom Warwick had brought home from uni for the Christmas holidays, had gone astray. When he’d asked her to show him a good time on New Year’s Eve, she had thought she was home and dry, but what had happened? She’d spent hours getting ready, piling her chestnut hair on top of her head to look really sophisticated and spraying herself with this wicked new perfume, Appeal. And yet within minutes of arriving at The Stomping Ground’s Free For All New Year Stampede, Guy had spotted Ella Barlow, who had the figure of a supermodel and the brain of an undernourished pea, and that was the last Chelsea had seen of him all evening.

  If it hadn’t been for Bex, she probably would have gone home. Bex was a year above Chelsea in school – when she was actually at school, that is. She had raven black hair cut into hedgehog spikes, loads of earrings, a nose stud and the reputation of being a rebel. None of Chelsea’s crowd had anything to do with Bex or her mates, who tended to loll around with bored expressions on their faces and smoke a lot – but while Chelsea had been leaning against the wall, wishing Laura was there and trying to avoid looking at Rob slobbering all over Jemma, Bex had flopped down on the stool next to her and said, ‘Trug quite fancies you,’ matter of factly. ‘He wants me to drag you over. Coming?’

  Chelsea hadn’t had a clue who Trug was, but anyone would be better than no one on a night like this, she’d thought, and had followed Bex to a corner table.

  ‘This is Trug,’ she’d said, shoving Chelsea in the direction of a gangly guy with long tangled hair and enough ironmongery in his ears to start a small steel works.

  ‘Wanna dance?’ Trug had said, jerking his head towards the dance floor.

  ‘OK,’ Chelsea had replied, casting an eye over his shoulder and noting with satisfaction that Guy was watching her closely.

  ‘What do you do?’ she’d asked as Trug wrapped his arms round her neck and began gyrating to the music. Apparently he was on the dole, played the guitar in subways and was waiting to be discovered as the latest rock sensation. Once he had informed her of that fact, he hadn’t talked much but had swayed about. Chelsea decided he wasn’t really her type, but perhaps just seeing her with someone else would fire Guy with unrestrained jealousy. She’d looked to where he was standing, deep in conversation with Supermodel. He hadn’t appeared to be suffering much.

  She had spent the rest of the evening with Bex and the gang. There had been one high spot when Jemma had come up, all smiles, hand in hand with Rob who was gazing at her adoringly, and said, ‘Hi, Chelsea, great evening, isn’t it?’

  Chelsea, who’d felt like bursting into tears at the sight of them together, had snapped, ‘I suppose you would enjoy it – any time away from Mummy’s apron strings is a bonus for you, isn’t it?’ and had been very satisfied to see a look of admiration flash across the faces of her new-found friends. Jemma had bitten her lip and turned crimson and Rob had dragged her off, throwing a look that could have killed in Chelsea’s direction. ‘Mate of yours
?’ Bex had queried. ‘Not any more,’ Chelsea had muttered darkly. Then a girl called Fee had begun talking at length about social inequality and how she reckoned her parents were a blight on society because they had two cars and stocks and shares and spent their holidays in Barbados.

  ‘Fee,’ Bex had said admiringly, ‘is very socially aware. Are your lot into anything worthwhile?’

  Chelsea hadn’t been quite sure what the right answer would be.

  ‘My mum works for the Echo,’ she’d ventured, ‘Dad’s a . . . catering consultant.’

  ‘She’s not that Ginny Gee woman, is she?’ Bex had asked. ‘The one who goes on Hot FM sometimes?’

  Chelsea had nodded reluctantly. Bex had looked impressed.

  ‘Oh yawn,’ Fee had droned. ‘That middle class, here’s how to deal with your stroppy teenagers stuff . . .’

  ‘Yeah, so boring,’ Bex had said hastily.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Chelsea had seen Supermodel and Guy in a clinch. So much for making him jealous. She’d been glad that the worst of the evening was over. Or so she had thought. When the party had broken up, everyone had piled outside and Chelsea had stopped dead on the pavement in horror.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Bex had asked.

  ‘Oh no!’ Chelsea had breathed.

  Parked on the opposite kerb was her dad’s soup kitchen van, and there, bold as brass standing on the pavement was her father, wearing a striped butcher’s apron and shouting at the top of his voice, ‘Come and get your Hogmanay Hotpot here! Treat yourself to a hot start to the New Year! Come and . . . oh, hi Chelsea, ready to go?’ he had shouted across the road.

  ‘Is that your dad?’ Fee and Bex had chorused in unison, smirking at one another.

  ‘You never said he ran a soup kitchen,’ sneered Trug. ‘Got any handouts for the poor and needy then, mate?’ he yelled across the street.

  Chelsea hadn’t even bothered to reply. She had just watched her reputation vanish into thin air. She had never been so embarrassed in her whole life, but her thoughts were interrupted by a shout from the object of her angst.