Other Peoples' Parents

I was wearing my stolen brown velvet trouser suit from Biba when I first met Simon at a party round the corner. He was the first boy I had ever seen with long hair. It was bright orange, but his locks looked gorgeous against his turquoise blue velvet trouser suit. He offered to drive me home in his souped up mini, even though it would only have taken me a minute to walk back to my place. I thought he was cool, but his two best friends, Gavin and Jamie were even cooler. Simon lived with his father in a grotty basement flat in Baker Street, but Gavin and Jamie both lived in big modern houses in Hampstead Village. Gavin’s parents were very hospitable and were always inviting his friends round for tea. Gavin would lie elegantly on his parents’ chaise longue, and delight in being cynical. His father was a modern art dealer, so there were always lots of peculiar looking paintings on the walls, and I shall never forget the wallpaper as long as I live. Enormous pink eyeballs stared down at you wherever you went. However, Jamie’s parents were the most glamorous of the lot. His dad was a famous songwriter and his mum was a jazz singer who bought all her clothes from Fortnum & Mason’s. But, none of Jamie’s friends had ever met them as we had never been invited to his house.

On New Year’s Eve, we decided to crash some parties. Simon packed his friends into his mini, including a girl called Sally Anne who had suddenly ballooned out. She used to be so thin and pretty and always wore Biba smocks right up to her chin. Now she had to wear a kaftan to conceal her blubber. She had been on the pill since she was twelve, and her metabolism had gone wonky. Thank to Sally Anne’s bulk, it was a very tight squeeze in Simon’s mini, but I insisted on sitting in the front so didn’t end up like a squashed concertina like the others did. After we had crashed fifty parties, we were tired and emotional and desperate for sustenance.
‘Come back to my place for breakfast,’ Jamie said.
'I can't wait to meet your mum,' I enthused.
Jamie laughed grimly.
Simon was also dying to meet Jamie's mum and started to drive at one hundred miles per hour. His mini wasn't called 'souped up' for nothing. Once inside Jamie's big house, we all collapsed in a heap on the pristine white rug in the open plan living room, grateful we had survived the journey. Jamie fished out a magnum bottle of vintage champagne from the fridge and opened it with a flourish. ‘Happy New Year’s Eve,’ we all chorused, kissing each other on the cheeks, but I noticed that the boys didn’t kiss Sally Anne. I suppose they couldn’t bear to touch her, now that she had got fat. Anyway, we were in the middle of dancing frenetically around the room when Jamie suddenly grew hysterical, which was surprising, as he was normally so cool.
‘You’ve all got to leave straightaway, my parents have just returned,’ he exclaimed dramatically.
‘I’m not leaving until I meet your mum,’ I said drunkenly.
‘Get out!‘ Jamie shouted, but it was too late. His parents had just lurched into the room. I think Jamie’s dad must have been drunk, as he kept crashing into the furniture and was slurring ‘Old Man River’ on top of his voice, but his mum was the biggest shock. On TV, she was the most beautiful woman you had ever seen. Now, I noticed that her red lipstick was smeared all over her chin and her perfect blonde chignon was sticking out at a precarious right angle, revealing a grey frizz underneath. I never knew she wore a wig. ‘Jamie, get your friggin’ friends out of my house right now,’ she screamed, before falling flat on her face with her legs sticking up in the air. How disappointing, Jamie’s parents weren’t cool at all. In fact, they were almost as bad as mine.

Copyright: Frances Lynn, 2008