My Favourite Part

10: all's shit that ends shit

When Babe and I told Cara about the Cotswolds party, she blew out both our ear drums with an earth-shattering squeal. Then, she bruised my arm and cursed me out for not telling her sooner.

"Um! Caz, if you're done assaulting me...?"

"Why the fuck didn't you say anything earlier?" She said, with a final slap to my shoulder. I shrugged, but the little smirk couldn't hide itself,

"Sorry, Mum, I couldn't find the right moment."

What I'd really meant, I think, was that I was cautious of when the right moment would be to bring it up around Babe again. She'd reacted well on Tuesday night, but on Wednesday her football team lost a match, and Thursday was okay, but the weather was shit. Today's Friday, post-lunch pre-Spanish, and I've learned that now, when she's full of pasta and about to see her favourite teacher, is the best time to say anything that might be a little explosive. Surprisingly, it hadn't even been me who had brought it up. Nonchalantly, and finished off with an amused snort, Babe had asked Cara when she was going to teach me the difference between all 50 types of dessert wines for the party. Then, Caz said what party. Then, I told her it was no big deal, and cue the squeals and slaps.

"Right," she declared, stopping in the moving traffic of the hallway to point a manicured finger at me, "you're coming to mine on Sunday, the both of you."

"Caz, I c-"

"No excuses! Intensive prep day at mine. Ange, bring heels and a can-do attitude. Babe, just bring your beautiful self, but leave the sarcasm at home."

"No can do, miss, it's surgically ingrained."

"Funny. Sunday, my house. 10am."

"Oh, can I come?" Mr. Holland is stood at the door of Caz's 5th period Latin class, with his little arms folded over a horizontally striped shirt that I already know Caz hates.

"Of course, sir, the more the merrier! You don't happen to know the up-to-date Ascot dress code, do you?"

"Cara. Inside, now."

"Alright, alright," she rolls her eyes and saunters into the classroom, blowing a kiss, "see you lovelies later. Lovely shirt, sir."

"Babe, I've gotta run, I need to pick up Walt's birthday present today."

"Ooh, qué bien, what are you getting him?"
"It's a surprise!"

"You don't know what you're getting yet, do you?"

"Don't you have a Spanish lesson to get to?"

*********************

"What about this one?" Roisin says, holding up a large white tie, speckled with red and green squares.

"Oh, for Christ's sake, Sheen, put that away," Elma scolds, "the man's not a circus clown. Goldilocks' dad is probably one of them fancy businessmen."

"He's not much of a tie man," I say, blushing. I don't think even Mr. Rogers could fake a smile for that.

"And, uh, Walt's not really my dad. He's my mum's boyfriend."

"Daddy-to-be, then," Elma says with her knowing smile, and though the wording throws me off, I appreciate the sentiment. I've got one of those already, though. I've already got a dad, too. "What's he do, Goldie?"

"Well, he coaches an under 11s football team – he's a big footie fan – but he used to be an accountant, back in the States."

Jerome snorts behind me, but doesn't lift his gaze from the rack of vinyls he's sorting,