FRANK
(baffled)
Anything edible you can write with?
DAD
Quick!
Frank disappears. The camera focuses on the cake.
AUDREY (V.O.)
How did you get her age wrong?
I mean, how did you manage that?
DAD
(clutches head)
I don’t know. I’ve spent all month writing financial reports about next year. My whole mind-set is next year. I guess I lost a year somewhere.
Frank bursts into the room holding a squeezy bottle of Heinz ketchup.
AUDREY (V.O.)
Ketchup? Seriously?
FRANK
(defensive)
Well, I didn’t know!
Dad grabs the bottle.
DAD
Can we turn a “nine” into an “eight” with ketchup?
FRANK
You won’t fool her.
AUDREY (V.O.)
Go over the whole number with ketchup. Make the whole thing a ketchup cake.
FRANK
Why would you ice a cake with ketchup?
DAD
(hurriedly icing)
Mum loves ketchup. It’s fine. It’s all good.
OK, so here’s a life lesson. Don’t try fixing a birthday cake with ketchup. Tipp-Ex would have been better.
As Dad brought out the cake, Mum’s jaw dropped. And not in a good way. I mean, if you take a white iced cake and pipe it all over with ketchup, it basically looks like the Texas Chainsaw Massacre. We all launched into “Happy Birthday” extra loudly, and as soon as we’d finished and Mum had blown out her (one) candle, Dad said, “Great! So let me take that away and cut it up—”
“Wait.” Mum put a hand on his. “What IS that? That’s not ketchup?”
“It’s a Heston Blumenthal recipe,” said Dad without blinking. “Experimental.”
“Right.” Mum still looked puzzled. “But isn’t that…” Before anyone could stop her, she was scraping the ketchup off with a napkin. “I thought so! There’s a message underneath.”
“It’s nothing,” said Dad quickly.
“But it’s piped in icing!” She wiped away the last blobs of ketchup and we all stared in silence at the smeared red-and-white cake.
“Chris,” said Mum at last in an odd voice. “Why does it say thirty-nine?”
“It doesn’t! It says thirty-eight. Look.” Dad’s hand traced over the vestiges of the ketchup. “That’s an eight.”
“Nine.” Felix pointed confidently at the cake. “Number nine.”
“It’s an eight, Felix!” said Dad sharply. “Eight!”
I could see Felix staring at the cake in puzzlement and felt a twinge of sympathy for him. How’s he supposed to learn anything with nutso parents like ours?
“It’s a nine, Felix,” I whispered in his ear. “Daddy’s joking.”
“Do you think I’m thirty-nine?” Mum looked up at Dad. “Do I look thirty-nine? Is that what you think?” She squashed her face between her hands and glared at him. “Is this a thirty-nine-year-old face? Is that what you’re telling me?”
I think Dad should have just junked the cake.
So this evening my dad is taking my mum on a date for her birthday, which you can tell from the clouds of perfume that suddenly descend onto the landing. Mum isn’t exactly subtle when she goes out. As she always tells us, her social life is practically nonexistent since having three kids, so when she goes out, she makes up for it with perfume, eye liner, hair spray and heels. As she totters down the stairs, I can see a little fake-tan blotch on the back of her arm, but I won’t tell her. Not on her birthday.
“Will you be all right, darling?” She puts her hands on my shoulders and looks anxiously at me. “You’ve got our numbers. Any problems, you tell Frank to call, straightaway.”
Mum knows I’m not brilliant with phones. Which is why Frank is officially on babysitting duty, not me.
“I’ll be fine, Mum.”
“Of course you will,” she says, but doesn’t let go of my shoulders. “Sweetheart, take it easy. Have an early night.”
“I will,” I promise.
“And, Frank.” She looks up as he lopes into the hall. “You will be doing homework only. Because I am taking this with me.”
She brandishes a power cable triumphantly, and Frank gapes.
“Did you—”
“Unplug your computer? Yes, young man, I did. I don’t want that computer going on for a nanosecond. If you finish your homework you can watch TV or read a book. Read some Dickens!”
“Dickens,” echoes Frank in disparaging tones.
“Yes, Dickens! Why not? When I was your age—”
“I know.” Frank cuts her off. “You went to see Dickens live. And he rocked.”
Mum rolls her eyes. “Very funny.”
“So! Where’s the birthday girl?” Dad comes hurrying down the stairs, bringing with him a cloud of aftershave. What is it with parents and too much perfume? “Now, are you guys OK?” He looks at me and Frank. “Because we’ll only be round the corner.”
My parents cannot leave the house. Mum has to do a final check on Felix, and Dad remembers he left the sprinkler on in the garden and then Mum wants to make sure that her Sky Plus is recording East Enders.
Eventually we chivvy them out and look at each other.
“They’ll be back in, like, an hour,” predicts Frank, and heads off to the playroom. I follow him because I don’t have much else to do, and I might read his new Scott Pilgrim. He goes to his computer station, rummages around in his school bag, and produces a power cable. Then he plugs in his computer and logs in, and up pops a game of LOC.