revolve one hundred and ten per cent around
you
. In fact,’ she says, her eyes glinting, ‘for one night a week from now on, it is going to revolve around
me
. Which is what I was about to explain until you got all stressy on me.’
I groan. ‘Don’t say “stressy”. No one says “stressy”.’
Mum ignores me. ‘Come on, I want to show you the website,’ she says, beckoning me and Harris into the kitchen.
‘But I want to go back outside and spy on the neighbours,’ says Harris.
‘You won’t have to spy on them for long,’ Mum says over her shoulder. ‘I’m going to invite them round once they’ve had a chance to settle in.’
‘And once you’ve had a chance to change your clothes, I hope,’ I mutter.
If Mum hears me, she doesn’t react. ‘So . . .’ She goes over to the kitchen table where her laptop is open. ‘I have been thinking for a while about getting a new hobby. I was having a look at evening classes—’
‘Not this again!’ I say. ‘The last time you did this we had to listen to you practising Italian all hours of the day and night.
And
you set the satnav to Italian – you nearly crashed the car when you went straight on instead of turning right and ended up on the pavement outside the cinema.’
Mum laughs. ‘Oh yes, I’d forgotten about that.
Che scherzo!
’ she adds in a sing-song accent.
‘Well
I
haven’t forgotten,’ I say. ‘Livvy and Izzy were waiting outside and you almost mowed them down. They have never let me forget it.’
Livvy and Izzy are twins in my year and they are the most evil people I have ever met. Their surname is Vorderman, so Aubrey and I call them the Voldemort Twins, or the VTs for short. They take great delight in the misfortune of others. Particularly in mine.
Mum is rolling her eyes. ‘You need to chillax a bit more, Skye,’ she says.
‘How can I “chillax” and “stop being stressy” when you insist on saying things like “chillax” and “stop being stressy”?’ I say. ‘Don’t forget the time you joined that drawing class and our house was covered in sketches of ugly naked people.’
‘That was Art,’ Mum says. ‘It was a serious life-drawing class where I learned important skills.’
‘All those bottoms were very funny,’ says Harris, snorting with laughter. He wiggles his own (thankfully not naked) bottom to make a point.
‘ANYWAY,’ I cut in, before Mum starts going on about the natural beauty of the human body. ‘Are you going to tell us what crazy idea you have had for a hobby this time?’
Mum smiles. ‘It was this lovely new outfit that gave me the idea,’ she said, twirling around.
‘Why do you keep doing that?’ I ask.
‘Because,’ she says, curtsying, ‘I am going to join a ballroom-dancing class.’ She flings her arm out and gestures to the laptop with a flourish.
There on the screen is a site for a class in the town hall. I read it out loud.
‘“Tuesday evenings, seven till nine. Learn to dance together. HAVE FUN! BE STYLISH! GET FIT! Follow in the footsteps of our professionals and you’ll soon be tangoing your toes off and waltzing your way to weight-loss!” ’
Oh. My. Actual. Life.
Mum has grabbed Harris by the hand and is holding his arm high, spinning him round as though he is a ballerina.
‘This is fun. Can I come dancing with you?’ Harris says, his eyes shining.
‘No, sausage. It’s an evening class for grown-ups,’ Mum says. She lets Harris go and he makes a big deal out of feeling dizzy, staggering around the kitchen and ending up on top of Pongo, who is snoozing in his basket in a patch of sunlight. (Harris likes joining Pongo in his basket. He does it a lot. That’s how weird he is.) Pongo takes this intrusion as a cue for a game: soon the two of them are chasing each other and running rings around the table, knocking the chairs flying as they rocket past.
I feel my stomach go cold as I realize what day it is. ‘Tuesday? Did it say Tuesday?’ I turn my back on