Perfect on Paper by Gillian Harvey (top 20 books to read txt) 📕

his apparent indifference. ‘I’m part of a rapping dance troupe destined for national fame.’

‘What?’ he said, turning back as he went into the kitchen. ‘A rapping what?’

‘Dance troupe.’

‘Right!’ he said, nodding and grinning as if she’d told him a joke he didn’t quite understand, or he was patronising someone who’d lost more than a few of their marbles. ‘Yeah, me too! Heh.’

‘Seriously …’

‘What?’ he turned, only half hearing.

‘Oh, never mind,’ she snapped, suddenly angry.

Of course he’d thought it was a joke. That’s what she’d felt, hadn’t she? At first. But she’d started to see it differently. Watching herself on video had been like watching someone else. Someone who needed to rehearse a lot more – but a person with natural talent. An engaging voice. Maybe it was actually a chance to show off a skill that she’d never shared with anyone. Nobody read poems much did they? But raps were another thing altogether.

Could she actually get herself heard?

Later, sipping her final pre-bed cup of tea, she drew the scrap of paper from her pocket, with the beginnings of her next rap scribbled on it.

Yo, I’m Martha, Martha B.,

Part of the Eezee Family,

I’m the mother, the one in charge,

Lovin’ life and livin’ it large!

What a load of rubbish.

Dan had convinced her about the ‘Eezee Family’ bit – and she hadn’t minded that.

But the last thing she was doing was ‘livin’ it large’. If anything, she was living life under the radar.

And if she was going to be brave enough to rap in front of an audience, she might as well do it from the heart.

Yo, I’m Martha, Martha B.,

Yeah, I see how you look at me.

Not your normal rapping star,

More like your sister, or your ma.

But just ’cos I don’t look street and cool,

It don’t mean I am a fool.

I’m older right, but wiser too,

I’ve got some things I could teach you …

She crossed out the lines and turned to a clean page.

This was going to be hard work.

Chapter Nineteen

Clare’s legs were still aching the following morning as she went downstairs. Katie was already up and dressed, and Toby had been whisked away an hour before. Alfie was nowhere to be seen. Sighing, she made him a cup of tea with two sugars. The boy who had once woken her every day at 5 a.m. had suddenly become nocturnal and never seemed to want to leave his bed in the mornings.

‘Alfie?’ Clare took a deep breath of clean air before pushing open her son’s bedroom door. As she’d suspected, he was still in bed – a tousled head just visible above the mound of tangled duvet. ‘Alfie?’ she repeated. ‘You’re late.’

He sighed with such force that she was surprised the duvet didn’t levitate. ‘OK, OK,’ he groaned resentfully, as if she was responsible for inventing concepts such as time, and sleep, and the necessity to function like a human being and get up in the morning.

‘I’ve made you a cuppa,’ she said, stepping into the room and feeling a strange prickling sensation beneath her stockinged foot.

‘Ouch!’ She placed the cup of tea on the tiny space she managed to find on his messy desk and inspected the bottom of her foot. It was peppered with half-yellow nail clippings. ‘For God’s sake, Alfie! I’ve told you before, don’t cut your nails onto the carpet! Use a bin.’

Her son grunted indistinctly.

She stepped back, her foot touching something mushy – a half-eaten sandwich on a plate. She picked up the plate, involuntarily, to take to the kitchen, then looked around the rest of the room.

There was barely a patch of carpet visible amongst the scattered debris of teenage boy. Crumpled T-shirts and pants surrounded his empty washing basket. His desk was covered in wrappers and plates and cups with fungus growing in them. His school bag lay on the floor, spewing forth his books into the mess. She breathed in – the room smelled of socks and mould and stale farts. ‘For God’s sake, Alfie. You’re fourteen!’ she said. ‘Don’t you think it’s time you cleared up after yourself?’

Another grunt.

Katie was fully dressed and eating Weetabix on the couch, balancing the over-full bowl dangerously on her knees, when Clare arrived downstairs with half a dinner service worth of dirty plates.

‘Dad left a note saying bye,’ Katie said.

‘Right, thanks,’ Clare replied, eyeing the mess that her husband had left in his wake.

She didn’t mind doing a bit of cleaning; it was the fact that, it seemed, her family assumed it was her job to do it and no one else seemed to consider the idea of pitching in. This was what had prompted her to hire a cleaner a couple of mornings a week for a bit– but Toby’s excess spending (and now hers, admittedly) meant they couldn’t afford any help these days. Somehow, everyone else seemed to be carrying on as normal, leaving her to pick up the slack: to remove crusted bowls of cereal and scrape the leftover contents into the bin; or pick up tissues and teacups and toenail clippings from whatever floor they saw fit to scatter them on.

‘You all right, Mum?’ Katie asked. ‘You look all weird.’

‘Yes,’ she said, smiling. ‘Yes, I’m fine.’

Because, she’d had an idea. The only way to show them exactly how disgusting they were was to leave everything they abandoned in their wake exactly as she found it. The question was, who would notice first? Would she be able to cope? And would her family all die some horrible bacteria-infested death before they realised they had to take responsibility for themselves?

She self-righteously piled Alfie’s plates next to the sink, before pointedly rinsing out her own coffee mug and setting it on the side. Then she called, ‘Bye kids – school bus in twenty minutes!’ before leaving the house and settling into her car.

‘Seat belt,’ Claudia reminded her.

‘Thanks Claudia,’ she replied. At least someone seemed to care about her wellbeing. Even if it was a borderline psychotic on-board computer.

‘Searching for thanks,’ said Claudia.

‘Cancel, thanks.’

‘Cancelling.’

‘You know, Claudia,’