Do You Remember the First Time?. Jenny Colgan

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       Chapter Three

      I groaned. God, I must have been pissed as a fart. I couldn’t remember a damn thing. Jesus. A crack of light was creeping across the floor. Ow. Bugger it.

      ‘Flora! Get up!’

      I could hear my mother’s voice. I panicked. Oh no. That must mean I’d got drunk and she’d had to bring me home!!! Oh no! She’d be sitting with Olly right now and they’d be having tea and agreeing with each other about what a handful I was, and how she doesn’t know how he puts up with me. Later on I’ll get lots of sniffy remarks from him about behaviour fitting a grown woman and taking responsibility. Oh fuck. It’s like having my parents back together, those two sometimes. Except at least my dad can be fun.

      I cringed as I remembered how mean I’d felt towards Olly. I hope nothing happened; I didn’t go and throw a drink at Clelland’s girlfriend … I didn’t, did I? I probed my mind for any tender spots of excruciating embarrassment, but there weren’t any there. Just a big black hole. That was peculiar. I don’t usually have vast gaps in my memory. I can’t—

      ‘Flora!’ Oh God. She sounds cross. Maybe I have done something really awful; my mother never gets cross at me nowadays. She’s too afraid, in case I leave her, or stop picking up the phone. If anything it’s the constant nervous entreaty that drives me so mad. This was almost better.

      Suddenly I notice something. I’m in my old bed, at my parents’ house. Oh God. Oliver must have dumped me here. Oh no. Something must be terribly wrong. Did he finally get up the guts to propose and …?

      Now, surely I’d remember something like that. But there’s nothing. Nothing there at all.

      ‘Yeah? Mum, could you bring me a cup of tea?’ I called out. Testing the water.

      ‘You must be joking, young lady!’ I could hear her starting up the stairs. ‘If you’re not up in two minutes, I’ll get you up. In fact …’

      Then she walked into my room and I jumped three feet in the air.

      ‘What’s the matter with you?’

      But I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t do anything except point.

      ‘Flora! Stop gawping like a fish and get ready.’

      It was my mother – I can’t dispute that. But here’s the weird thing: she looked decades younger. Her skin was unlined, her hair brown and she seemed to have lost the hunch. Even her tone of voice was completely different. This was my mother how I remembered her from when I lived at home. I swallowed. I was half asleep, after all. She must have decided to sort her life out. Maybe after seeing Tashy’s parents at the wedding. Maybe she’d started on HRT and it was just kicking in.

      ‘God, Mum, you gave me a fright. You look great, by the way.’

      She sat down on my bed. ‘Look, Flora, I’m sorry your party didn’t work out, but you can’t mooch around for ever. You still have to get up and face everyone today.’

      What the hell had gone on at Tashy’s do?

      Then she did something odd. As she turned to go she tutted and said something very strange under her breath.

      ‘Teenagers!’

      I couldn’t quite have heard her as she said it. It just chimed in with the fact that something was very, very wrong. My room, for example, the room my mother had redecorated in beige as a guest room, even though the only guest she ever got was me, was covered in lots of pin-ups of R&B stars, and I don’t even like R&B. There were clothes all over the floor that I didn’t recognise. Had she got a lodger? Had I been unconscious for months? What the hell was going on?

      I got out of bed – wearing, I noticed, a long flouncy nightie that I normally wouldn’t be seen dead in – and stumbled down the hallway to the bathroom. I held on to the sink and looked at myself in the mirror. God, for someone who’d been so drunk she’d passed out and had to be taken to her mother’s house to sleep it off, I looked great.

      I blinked at the reflection again, then, like a complete idiot in a cartoon, rubbed my eyes to make sure.

      You don’t see yourself changing. Sure, you notice a wrinkle now and again, the odd half-stone that creeps on and off with annoying regularity. But it’s still you. Your face. Your best Zoolander face in the mirror. The way you sometimes catch sight of yourself in a shop window, then hope nobody else saw you looking at yourself. When I was a teenager, I used to spend hours staring in the mirror, mooning at myself, wondering. Am I pretty? Will my curls ever straighten out? Is one eye bigger than the other? Will boys like me? If I sleep on alternate ears, will they stop sticking out? Who am I going to be?

      And it was exactly this face that was staring back at me now. No straightening irons had been applied to this hair. No subtle blonde streaks. No serums. No carefully plucked brows.

      I wasn’t sure what was going on but had it pretty much figured for one of those extremely convincing dreams. Any moment, the Queen and a big hippopotamus were about to crash through the window and take me flying. Until then, I was going to make the best of it. I stared and stared. This looked like my face from at least ten years ago.

      I had a crop of spots on my forehead. I moan about the occasional pimple now, but I’d forgotten what it was like when they used to grow in small fields. But apart from that, my skin was fresh, rosy … I turned round. I disappeared. I stretched out a long, white thin arm. Oh my God. How could I not have known this wouldn’t stay for ever? How could I not have realised that years of pizza and red wine could have an effect on this? When I was really younger, I thought I had an enormous arse and spent my entire time covering it up. I turned round again. OK, it wasn’t Kylie, but in absolutely nobody’s world was this a big arse. Wow! I jumped up and down. Nothing wiggled at all. Look! Look! Hip bones! Bones! Oh my God! OK, my hair was a frizzy disaster, with what appeared СКАЧАТЬ