Three Little Boys

Chapter 5

I turn and find that Nadine has gone. I'm actually surprised, as I thought the establishment was using her as some sort of prototype homing missile that could locate me whatever prison wing I was residing in. No matter. I have left the English class feeling truly optimistic about my future here. It was time I blew this joint and spread the good news. My only problem was who to tell first? I could pop round Auntie Eileen's and let her shower me with praise, but then that would mean missing out on sticking it to David.

It's a good job my brother sits at the back of the bus while I remain quiet and resolute at the front. If we were seated together I would probably not be able to contain myself from letting him know of my impending stardom. It is equally fortunate that our bus stop is so near our block of flats. If we had far to go, I would be sorely tempted to let it slip.

I have never been so pleased to get home. I let him enter first and seek Mum out. I want to see both their faces when I inform them.

"Oh, Davy, you'll never guess what," I hear, before I've even got my shoes off.

Shock horror: Mum's not horizontal. Instead, she's hugging David like he's just been returned by the IRA, relatively unharmed. I meander into the lounge and find that she's bustling him onto the sofa next to her and reading him a letter (I always said footballers couldn't read or write).

"...it says here," she goes on. "That they want to do a run of three more adverts with you in them. Isn't that great?"

"Oh, cool," says David, like he's simply found out that a dentist's appointment has been temporarily postponed.

"They want you in the studio next week, is that okay?" she says.

He shrugs, "Yeah, guess so."

Then Mum starts to blather on about how this will take care of the Council Tax and the water rates, not to mention buy me some "proper" glasses. I don't wear the pair I have and am not about to start; it doesn't matter what type she gets me.

I don't know what annoys me more: the fact that Mum seems so happy at the news and flits around the kitchen cooking us a "celebratory" dinner, or that David does not appear to give a damn. The contrasting atmosphere that exists in our flat is enough to dampen my mood to the point where I can hardly bring myself to tell them about my good fortune.

Just under an hour later a plate of (supposedly) healthy lamb chops and fresh (frozen) vegetables is thrust under my nose. David eats his with relish. I am already full from the two Dairy Crunch bars I saved from yesterday's trip into town.

"Don't look so glum, Doug," Mum says over dinner.

I was not looking glum. She clearly cannot differentiate 'glum' from 'despondent.'

"I'm sure they won't mind you coming along to the studios. You love all that telly stuff, don't you?"

Those responsible for advertising Clark's junior footwear range are amateurs.

"Look, it's a different company now," she says, showing me a cheap logo at the top of the headed paper. "That nasty man won't be there this time."

It was bad enough her asking the director whether I could be an extra (I tried to get her to use the word 'cameo,' but she obviously forgot), let alone the smirk he displayed when he saw me. I heard what he said about "wide angle lenses."

The God of Sadistic Irony prevails over my prison. I return there daily and curse the dark forces working against me. Why is it so hard to be alone with Allison? Why is she never more than five paces away from that gaggle of chattering hyenas? And, to compound matters, why is it that Nadine does not seem to speak, or want to speak, with anyone apart from me?