Sisteria Read Free

had spent many hours trying to convince their daughter that she was beautiful. Each time they thought her self-confidence was improving, some revolting toe-rag at school would destroy it by ripping the piss with a remark like ‘Oh, miss, why don’t you ask Natalie Littlestone that question. She always NOSE.’
    Today, in order to compound Natalie’s usual agony, her nose had sprouted on the side of one nostril a large angry red hillock which was about to evolve into a spot, but hadn’t yet developed a head.
    Beverley squinted at the spot. She was determined to play it down. The faintest acknowledgement that Natalie’s nose had spawned an embryonic super-zit would guarantee that she skipped school and spent the day locked in her squalid, dirty-knicker-strewn bedroom consoling herself by playing her Verve CD at full volume.
    â€˜Natalie, for heaven’s sake,’ she said, ‘it’s just a pimple. You can hardly see it.’
    â€˜Where from? Fiji?’
    Ignoring her daughter’s sarcasm, Beverley picked up Natalie’s half-finished bowl of cereal and took it over to the sink.
    â€˜Just put some TCP on it,’ she soothed, ‘and then cover it with some of my concealer. There’s a tube in my make-up bag in the bathroom. It’ll probably go down by tomorrow. Now then...’ she continued as she picked up two foil parcels, ‘I’ve given you a couple of tuna fish bagels for your school lunch, and there’s a piece of Grandma’s cheesecake for afterwards...’
    â€˜My God,’ Natalie said between sobs, ‘you don’t get it, do you? You just don’t get it. I have a throbbing boil the size of Brent Cross on my already hideously deformed nose which the entire school makes fun of, and your solution isn’t sympathy and the offer of a consultation with a plastic surgeon... no, it’s blinkin’ tuna fish bagels and cheesecake. Mum, when are you going to get real and stop behaving like some nineteenth-century Ukrainian Jewish peasant? Grandma’s lived with us for five years and in all that time I’ve never seen her fuss like you.’
    Beverley said nothing. It was true. But Natalie was clearly in no mood to be reminded that despite her grandmother’s celebrated lack of interest in fussing and kvetching , she served up ample aggravation in other ways. Hardly a day went by when Queenie didn’t let Beverley know how much money the husband of some old school friend or other was rumoured to be making selling software (which she assumed meant he travelled in duvets, pillows and cushions) and how much better Beverley could have done for herself than to marry Melvin.
    By now Natalie had clacked off towards the door, only to collide with her father, who was on his way into the kitchen fully dressed apart from one bare foot. He was carrying a handful of socks.
    Without saying a word, she barged past him.
    â€˜Morning, sweetness,’ he said with good-natured sarcasm. He turned towards Beverley. ‘Blimey, what’s got into her ?’
    â€˜Don’t make fun, Melvin. It’s serious,’ Beverley explained, putting the foil parcels in the fridge. ‘She’s got a slight spot on the side of her nose. Honestly, her mood swings are getting intolerable. You’re a pharmacist. Couldn’t you bribe some bent doctor to take her ovaries out one night while she’s asleep?’
    â€˜You wish,’ he chuckled.
    â€˜Listen,’ Beverley said, ‘did you give Benny a shout?’
    At some stage, which she found impossible to pinpoint precisely, their son had turned from a boisterous, eager little boy who was always up and ready for school each morning by seven thirty, to a lolloping, grunting nearly-sixteen-year-old who could sleep through the after-effects of a six-mile-wide meteorite landing next door.
    â€˜No, I didn’t. For the simple reason that I’ve been too busy trying to sort