By the Time You Read This

By the Time You Read This
Lola Jaye

The smash hit debut novel for this summerThis is my (Kevin Bates) manual for my daughter Lois. The love of my life.Rules of the manual:1.You must only read each new entry on your birthday2.This is a private manual between you and me.3.No peeping at the next entry unless it's your birthday!When Lois Bates is handed the manual, she can barely bring herself to read it as the pain of her dad’s death is still so raw.Yet soon Kevin’s advice is guiding her through every stage of her life – from jobs to first loves and relationships.The manual can never be a substitute for having her dad back, but through his words Lois learns to start living again, and finds that happiness is waiting round the corner …

LOLA JAYE

By the Time You Read This

For Heaven’s Girl

Contents

Title Page (#u39a3d1dd-1b97-5ac5-9fc2-e5d1f1e3c674)Dedication (#u4b3a42bd-0291-5cb9-b4e5-f64b832d1322)Prologue (#ub26c0a32-d538-54a8-9c94-55b1d5c5e204)With Stars On (#u985e56c1-ca31-5664-b7d5-014a70fcf608)Try Not To Be A Wimp (#ua240d6b2-6194-54d3-83a8-24291945af15)Teabags Bursting With Hormones (#u84b18b35-7051-5488-82ac-4ee71a94d742)Fact: Humiliations Will Only Get Worse With Age (#u399163a0-82fe-58d4-8748-3381c9413395)There’S A Good Way And A Bad Way To Do It (#u15311039-fb31-540b-ba42-b7f15362f180)Do As I Say, Not As I Did (#u7e8c040c-2622-5005-9a6f-53b38da8c68d)Have Life Will Travel (#litres_trial_promo)Believe In Yourself (#litres_trial_promo)Keep Moving (#litres_trial_promo)Take A Risk (#litres_trial_promo)Do We Ever Really Grow Up? (#litres_trial_promo)Our Song (#litres_trial_promo)The Best (#litres_trial_promo)You Never Get Used To Being The Lamppost (#litres_trial_promo)Mistakes Are Okay (#litres_trial_promo)Do Something Silly (#litres_trial_promo)Your Longest Chapter My Shortest (#litres_trial_promo)Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

Prologue (#u762aad71-2263-5b3a-bf65-5843fc46753b)

Mum’s marrying some prick she met down the bingo.

Apparently they fell in love as he called out ‘Legs eleven’ in a smoke-filled hall in Lewisham, packed with bored housewives ticking off paper boxes. Eyes down, cross off a number and another, until some wailing overweight woman shouts ‘House!’ to anyone who gives a damn. I hate them. I hate bingo. And sometimes I hate Mum. But most of all, I hate him. For ordering me about, telling me to call him Dad, for pretending to be my dad and, most of all, for not being my dad.

You see, my dad’s dead.

Some illness I couldn’t even pronounce finished him off about seven years ago in 1983 when I was five and he was thirty.

But we don’t talk about that.

We hardly even talk about him any more, really…

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Doc Martens feet swinging in time to my croaky hum of the Brookside theme tune, I shook my ridiculously ringleted hair that had taken ages to style and stunk of Dax hair grease and let out an exaggerated puff of air. I was fed-up. Almost a teenager, yet there I was clad in a frilly yellow dress that allowed me to resemble a pavlova. I wished I could just disappear. Maybe travel down the rec with Carla – my best friend – or change the habit of a lifetime and happily start some homework, complete with the seven dwarfs’ whistle. In fact, I’d do almost anything to avoid this poxy, stupid, pathetic ‘wedding of the year’.

‘Lois!’ Mum called in a squeaky voice.

‘What?’ I replied with a sigh, my eyes darting to heaven.

‘Excuse me, young lady?’

‘I mean, yes, Mummy?’ I replied in the cutest little voice I could pull off.

The door to my PRIVATE (couldn’t she read the sign on the door?) sanctuary swung open. ‘Are you ready yet, Lois? We’ve got to be at the registry for eleven and it’s already nine forty-five!’

I checked out my mother in her wedding gear, glad she looked almost as tragic as I did. Thick blue eye-shadow in a tug of war with an off-white, two-piece mess with puffed sleeves. Puffed sleeves! It was 1990! Who did that any more? The silver shoes didn’t help matters either, along with the backcombed hairstyle, perhaps more at home on a schizo Crufts poodle!

‘I’m nearly ready,’ I replied sweetly, but with a spot of annoyance lurking round the corner. I swung off my bed, quickly locating the pink dolly shoes she’d bought just to humiliate me that little bit more. I didn’t care about most people, but Carla and her brother Corey would be at the wedding to witness my shame and that just wasn’t fair.

‘You look so adorable!’ gushed Mum, and for one ridiculous second I convinced myself she was going to blub.

‘Er, thanks?’ I mumbled, pulling off my well-’ard DMs to slip into the dolly shoes, my little right toe recoiling in instant pain as it connected with the hard plastic. Only last week, I found out my right foot was longer than the left. I’m bloody deformed!

‘Come on then, let’s go, Lois.’ I ignored the invite of Mum’s hand as it came at me like a weapon. ‘I don’t want to be late for my big day, now, do I?’

This summer was one of the hottest on record, which I could believe if my dress, currently sticking to me like flies to dog poo, was anything to go by. The heat rash that ensued meant that I scratched and tugged the dress all the way through the vows and exchanging of rings. Mercifully, the service was short. Unfortunately, the reception (held in a restaurant that stank of disinfectant) lasted a lot longer than necessary. Boring stories floating around the room like confetti. And what with the kisses, hugs, dull speeches and hard squeezes from sweaty relatives I’d never even set eyes on before, things grew shoddier by the millisecond. Worse still, Carla remained cocooned between her dad and brother on a table miles from mine. It was a total nightmare of a day, growing extra tragic the minute Granny Morris drew what little strength she had to shove me onto the dance floor for a slow dance! Egheee! The experience of dancing with Granny Morris, reminded me of one of those horror films Mum wouldn’t let me watch, but I’d catch next door with Carla and Corey – only much, much worse.

I had finally managed to escape another ‘I remember when you were a little girl’ tale, about to join Carla and Corey in sneaking outside, when out of the shadows of balloons, streamers and ‘The Birdie Song’, a new guest appeared.

She was beautiful, with thick black braids cascading down her slimline back like a glossy rug. Unlike Mum’s attempt at fashion, this lady wore a simple flowery shift dress and plain rounded hat that looked a bit like a full moon on her obviously gorgeous head. She smiled at me and, instantly, my mood lifted.

She walked towards me and I realised it was my Auntie Philomena – my real dad’s sister. Her showing up was a massive surprise, especially as I hadn’t seen her in ages. So instead of running outside to, I dunno, argue this week’s top forty with my mates, I stood before this glamorous aunt of mine, waiting for something intelligent to pop into my head.

‘Hello, Lois.’

‘Hello,’ I replied, sounding like a right geek.

‘You look lovely.’

I stared at her full lips, which looked pilfered from some unsuspecting model in a glossy magazine, and I began to wonder, did she act like him? Laugh like him? Think like him? I could only remember a handful of things about my dad. Stupid stuff, like the tiny mole just under his right eyelid.

‘Auntie Philomena?’

‘You remember me, then? I really wasn’t sure if you would. I’m glad, though. Really pleased.’

‘No, well, I don’t remember you THAT much…’ I said, annoyed. Of course I remembered her. Unlike Dad’s younger sister Ina, Auntie Philomena called me up a few times a year – mostly birthdays and Christmas. She even sent the odd hideous blouse, pictures or a lump of spice cake wrapped securely in tin foil through the post, when I’m sure a visit would have been more hygienic? But, apart from Mum making me travel up to Granny Bates once a year, I didn’t really have that much full on contact with my dad’s side of the family. And I was okay with that. Really, I was…I am.

I crunched a knuckle.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

‘For what?’ I shrugged.

‘For not being around much. I live pretty far away. And the kids…’

I stifled a yawn, the frilly fabric of my ridiculous dress beginning to irritate the tops of my knees. She beckoned me outside away from the crowds – and, thankfully, away from the sight of Great Auntie Elizabeth swinging larger-than-average hips to ‘Let’s Twist Again’.

The only bench we could find was soiled with bird crap, though it didn’t concern me, as it would probably improve the look of the dress anyway. My mind did begin to wonder what Corey and Carla were up to, though.

‘I need to talk to you,’ said Auntie Philomena, who on closer inspection had yellowing teeth.

‘Talk to me? Me? About what?’ I raised my voice in that high-pitched manner that made me sound as if Ireally wanted to know. And I didn’t. Not really. Okay, maybe a little bit, then. Especially as the only time a grown-up ever wanted to talk to me was to ask about my homework (teachers) or nag the fun out of me (Mum, teachers).

‘I have something for you, Lois… And it’s really, really important.’

‘Right…’ I sat on my hands, believing it could stop me from exploding. I wasn’t good at this patience thing that grown-ups always spoke about.

A wave of fear washed over me, especially as she began to look at me weirdly, before her manicured fingers began squeezing my hand so tightly I thought she’d break the left metacarpus (I’d learned that one in biology a week earlier).

She continued, ‘It’s something we should have told you about a long, long time ago…’

We? Okay, the woman was freaking me out now. My mind glossed over a number of likely scenarios: genetic disease; Public Enemy splitting up? The possibilities were endless and I’d had enough of this guessing game. I JUST WANTED TO KNOW.

‘Is it about my dad?’ I asked quietly, hopefully. A shot in the dark.