‘Becky …’ Bonnie cuts me off kindly. ‘Should we perhaps meet to discuss all this?’
Result! As I put down the phone I’m beaming. Everything’s falling into place. Bonnie’s already offered to put together a guest list and we’re having lunch next week. Now I just have to decide on a party venue.
My gaze drifts outside. The garden would be perfect. But we’d never be able to keep it secret from Luke.
‘Have you heard the latest?’ Mum comes hurrying into
the kitchen, followed by Minnie. Her face is pink and she’s breathing fast. ‘It’s not just Bank of London! All the banks are like Swiss cheese! Full of holes! Have you heard, Graham?’ she adds agitatedly to Dad, who is just coming in. ‘The entire banking structure is going to collapse!’
‘It’s a bad business.’ Dad nods, flicking on the kettle.
I’ve stopped watching the news because it’s too depressing, but the Bank of London crisis is still going on like some kind of soap opera. Now they’ve stopped the cashpoints working and a few people have thrown stones at the windows. The Prime Minister appeared on the TV last night and told everyone to please stop taking their money out. But all that did was make everyone freak out even more. (I knew it would. Didn’t I say? They really should make me an adviser at Number 10.)
‘Luke says we won’t all lose our money,’ I venture.
‘Oh Luke does, does he?’ Mum bristles. ‘And would Luke like to tell us if any other financial institutions are about to fold? Or would that be too much trouble?’
She’s never going to forgive him, is she?
‘Mum,’ I say for the millionth time, ‘Luke couldn’t have told us. It was confidential and sensitive. And you would have told the whole of Oxshott!’
‘I would not have told the whole of Oxshott!’ she says sharply. ‘I would have warned Janice and Martin and a few other dear friends and that is all. And now we’ll probably lose everything. Everything.’ She shoots me a resentful look as though it’s all my fault.
‘Mum, I’m sure we won’t lose everything.’ I try to sound confident and reassuring.
‘I heard a commentator on the radio this morning predicting anarchy! Civilization will collapse! It’s war!’
‘Now, now, Jane.’ Dad pats her on the shoulder. ‘Let’s not overreact. We simply might have to tighten our belts a little. Pull in our horns. All of us, Becky.’ He gives me a significant look.
I can’t help feeling a bit offended. What was that look for?
Excuse me, I’m an adult. I’m a mother. You move back in with your mum and dad and they immediately start treating you like a teenager who’s spent her travelcard money on a pair of legwarmers.
Which I only did once.
‘Poor Janice has taken to her bed with the strain, you know.’ Mum lowers her voice discreetly, as though Janice might hear us from inside her house. ‘It was bad enough for her hearing Jess and Tom’s news.’
‘Poor Janice,’ Dad and I say, in automatic unison.
‘She had her heart set on that wedding. I mean, I know the younger generation like to do things differently, but really, is it so hard to walk down an aisle in a veil? Janice had already planned the table decorations and the wedding favours. What’s she going to do with all that silver fabric?’
Mum keeps on talking, but I’ve been gripped by a sudden idea.
Janice’s garden. Of course! We could put up a marquee there and Luke would never suspect a thing! He’d just think Martin and Janice were having their own bash!
‘… and not a single wedding picture for the mantelpiece …’ Mum is still in full indignant flow.
‘Hey, Mum,’ I interrupt. ‘Listen. Don’t tell Luke, but I’m going to hold a surprise birthday party for him. And I was just thinking – do you reckon Janice would let me do it in her garden?’
There’s silence. Both Dad and Mum are eyeing me weirdly.
‘A party, love?’ Mum sounds tense. ‘You mean, a few friends over?’
‘No! A big party! With a marquee and everything.’
Now Mum and Dad are exchanging looks.
‘What?’ I say, rankled.
‘It sounds rather … big.’
‘It will be big,’ I say defiantly. ‘And brilliant. I’m going to have a dance-floor that lights up, and fire-eaters, and Luke will be completely blown away.’
I think about this every night; in fact I always conjure up the same image in my head: Luke staring in shock at the most amazing party in the world, and being literally unable to speak. I can’t wait.
‘Fire-eaters?’ echoes Mum, looking perturbed. ‘Becky, love …’
‘It’ll be George Michael all over again,’ Dad mutters darkly to Mum, and I give a sharp intake of breath. That is against our family code. No one was supposed to mention George Michael ever again. We even turn off ‘Careless Whisper’ whenever it comes on.
‘I heard that, thank you, Dad.’ I give him a furious stare. ‘And it won’t.’
The George Michael incident was so painful, I can barely bring myself to remember the details. So I won’t. Except that I was turning thirteen, and my whole class thought George Michael was entertaining at my birthday party. Because I’d said he was. And they all came with their autograph books and cameras …
I feel a bit queasy, just thinking about it.
Thirteen-year-old girls are mean.
And I had not made it up, like everyone said. I had not. I phoned the fan club and the man said he was sure George would have loved to be there and I kind of … misunderstood.