Vintage by Maxine Linnell Read Free Book Online Page A

phone.”
    There was a long pause while Marilyn imagined Holly’s father climbing the walls. Then she was handed the phone.
    She held it like the mother did and heard a man’s voice. He was shouting. She held the mobile further away.
    â€œYour mother says you’ve lost that bloody phone. Where did you lose it?”
    â€œI don’t know. If I knew that, it wouldn’t be lost.” She realised that didn’t sound good, but she was genuinely trying to explain.
    â€œDon’t you smart talk me, my girl. You’ve had that phone a week. I only pay for it so I can keep an eye on you. I know that mother of yours is out till all hours helping the needy – or whatever she does since she went to college and got that stupid job.”
    â€œI’m sorry, Dad.” It seemed to be the right thing to say. Somehow she felt sorry, as if she really had lost the phone. But it was annoying taking the blame for someone she didn’t even know.
    â€œI should think you are sorry. This is your last chance, right? I’ll ring the insurance up and get you a new phone. And cancel the old one. Then you’ll have the same number.”
    Marilyn didn’t understand any of this.
    â€œThanks, Dad.”
    â€œThat’s more like it. And you look after this one, right?”
    â€œI’ll guard it with my life.”
    â€œNo need to go that far. If some hoodie tries to mug you for it, you give it to him. It’s not worth dying for.”
    He seemed to be softening, even though she didn’t understand what he meant.
    â€œYes, Dad.” Marilyn was getting good at this.
    â€œRight. If I get them now you’ll have the new one tomorrow, express. That’s what I pay the insurance money for. Now hand me back to your mother.”
    The mother was shaking her head and smiling. Marilyn gave her back the phone.
    â€œOkay, Steve, all sorted?”
    There was another long pause while she listened, watching the television and twitching her foot up and down. Marilyn got back to her pizza, which was cold now. She put it back in the box. The mother put the phone on a side table and sat back on the settee.
    â€œYou wound that man round your little finger!”
    â€œI just…”
    â€œHe’ll get you another phone this time, but watch out. You wouldn’t want to be without one, would you?”
    Never having had one, Marilyn couldn’t answer that. She went back to grunting, and they sat together until the mother fell asleep with her head on Marilyn’s shoulder and started to snore. After a while, Marilyn gently moved her head onto a cushion and headed upstairs to bed.

It’s freezing. Two hours. Standing on the sidelines, watching some sad girls play hockey.
    This is not my idea of a Saturday morning. Could be snug under the duvet. I don’t even know which side I’m meant to be cheering. The girl points it out. She jabbers away, but I keep forgetting. Not as if I care or anything. But I manage to keep quiet.
    â€œCome on, Gateway!” she shouts. There’s a few other girls watching. A few parents too, kitted out in hats and scarves. The women are wearing some kind of hijab. This scarf that covers their heads completely. Ties under the chin. Different colours and patterns.
    I must remember this. For my project. Should start taking notes. This will be a totally authentic project. Should get an A* at least.
    If I ever get back.
    I don’t know the rules of hockey. Looks vicious. Sticks are hard. So’s the ball. Girls’ legs are all blotchy from the cold. And the pleated shorts. Cellulite quivering. Running up and down clutching sticks. It’s almost medieval.
    I’m not into sports myself.
    Too much competition.
    Half way through the match there’s a break. They give out pieces of orange to the players. None for us. No burger stands anywhere I can see. We just stamp about a bit to get warm. And wait.
    The match finishes.