The Shoestring Club by Sarah Webb Read Free Book Online Page A

without Kirsten he just couldn’t face it. So with the help of some of his builder friends, he converted Sorrento House into two living spaces, creating a comfy apartment for Bird in the basement. He left his job making posh bespoke D4 kitchens, and with some of the proceeds from the house sale set up his own company – Wooden Monkey – selling and setting up climbing frames and swing sets, imported from Germany. It meant he could work from home and be around when we got in from school and Bird was out running the shop.
    To compensate for moving and as our Christmas presents – plus I think money was tight that year; Mum had been the main wage earner in the family – Dad offered to build me and Pandora something special. Pandora, ever practical, chose a walk-in wardrobe for her new bedroom, complete with state of the art lighting, but I had other plans. The main reason I was upset about moving from Deansgrange to Bird’s house in Dalkey, was because it meant leaving my beloved tree house behind. So Dad let me design a new one, even bigger, with real glass windows, a trap door and a fireman’s pole. And boy did he work hard, every evening, in the dark, to make sure it was ready for Christmas.
    On Christmas morning Bird put a big white ribbon on the door and made me cut it with pinking shears. And I spent most of the day up there, happy in my new palace for one.
    Exactly one year later, I climbed up the rope ladder, my arms filled with red damask curtains – Bird’s Christmas present to me that year, made from one of her old ball dresses – dying to hang them on the bamboo curtain rails Dad had rigged up. I found Jamie sitting on the makeshift sofa in the corner, his arms wrapped around his skinny legs, crying his heart out.
    ‘They’re at it again, Jules. Shouting.’
    I dropped the curtains on the floor and stared at him. ‘On Christmas Day?’
    He nodded and wiped his eyes with the back of his hands. ‘Do you think they’ll get a divorce?’
    I sat down beside him. ‘No! They’re always arguing. It doesn’t mean anything.’
    ‘Suppose.’ He sniffed but the tears had stopped.
    ‘Do you want to see my Christmas presents? I could go and get them. I got a Selection Box. You can have the Crunchie, I know it’s your favourite. And any time they’re shouting you can hide in here, OK? You can even sleep here if you like. I don’t mind.’
    He smiled, his eyes still blurry. ‘Thanks, Jules.’
    And so it began. Jules and Jamie. Jamie and Jules. We shared everything, we had no secrets. I thought we’d be friends for ever, but I guess I was wrong.
    That night I fall quickly into a groggy sleep, helped by the second bottle of wine and a vodka nightcap. There’s always wine in the house. Mum used to be in this wine club that sent her a mixture of different bottles to try every month. Mum always swore by a few glasses of red at dinner, when she was actually home that is; her job was horribly busy. Dad has never quite got around to cancelling the subscription, even though Bird reminds him the odd time, and the pantry is stacked with wine boxes. I’ve never really liked drinking alone, especially not at home, it’s always seemed wrong somehow, but the way the last few months have gone, I think I’m entitled to enjoy myself a little, even if it is on my own. And at the moment I don’t exactly have any friends to hang out with – Olaf takes up a lot of Rowie’s time and Pandora is a dead loss, she puts far too much energy into Shoestring to have any time for socializing or having fun – so drinking solo is the only option.
    In New Zealand, things were different. I was out pretty much every night. The bars close unreasonably early over there, so afterwards we’d always head to a club or back to someone’s house to continue drinking. I guess it’s different when you’re away, even if you have a full-time, proper nine to five job it’s not like ‘real’ work; you’re in permanent ex-pat party mode,