Читать книгу Watching You, Watching Me - Chloe Rayban - Страница 11

Saturday morning. Mum likes to use Saturdays to catch up on chores. So it had become a sort of ritual that Dad and I should make the routine shopping expedition to the supermarket. I had an ulterior motive, of course, like making sure decent shampoo and conditioner found its way into the trolley, not just family stuff — and slipping in things like Fruit Comers and Coco Pops when he wasn’t looking. If Dad had his own way he’d come out with an entire trolley of unwashed, unwrapped, organically-grown fruit and veg. He has this real thing about packaging, keeps ranting on about what a waste of the worlds resources it is. In Dad’s ideal world, we’d all have to juggle our groceries home with our pockets filled with detergent. So for Dad, Saturday mornings at Sainsbury’s isn’t just shopping — its a crusade.

We’d stocked up on fruit and veg and Dad had given a lady who was helping herself to a stash of special mushroom bags a lecture on criminal waste — when I spotted Matt.

He was with that alkie guy — the one who looked as if he’d been guzzling vodka on number twenty-fives front wall. The alkie guy actually had an open can of lager in his hand, and between bouts of slopping it everywhere, he was drinking out of it. Their trolley was packed sky-high with booze. A third guy, who was huge and ferocious-looking with matted dreadlocks, was tagging along behind. I knew Dad would throw a wobbly if he saw them. I steered our trolley into safer territory between the cereal aisles and started up a distracting argument about the virtues of Kelloggs versus Own Brand Cereals. I knew this would get him going.

‘They’re all made by the same people, Natasha.’

‘No they’re not. Says so on the packet.’

‘It’s basically the same stuff inside, though.’

‘It can’t be.’

Dad was well into a tirade against branded goods when we moved on to Jams and Preserves. Since it was Saturday morning the place was pretty crowded. At this rate I just might get Dad out of the supermarket without him spotting the guys.

All went well as we went full steam ahead through tinned foods and stocked up on pasta. Nearing the end of the maze of aisles, we reached pet foods. I was reminding Dad of the varieties of cat food that Yin and Yang would or would not currently eat.

‘What do you mean, they’ll eat Chicken & Rabbit but not Chicken & Turkey? Those can’t taste much different.’

‘Maybe they read the labels.’

‘Well, they’re getting Own Brand. I’ve never heard of brand-conscious cats.’

‘That is so unfair; Dad. They don’t do Own Brand Salmon & Shrimp — and that’s their favourite.’

‘One tin, Natasha — for a treat. And that’s their lot.’

So all we had left to do now was detergents. We rounded the top of the Shampoo and Soaps aisle and as luck would have it, there they were. The alkie guy with the flat-top haircut was throwing his weight around, having some sort of argument with one of the shelf-stackers. He had him by the lapels.

Dad stopped in his tracks.

‘Just look at that,’ he said. ‘Disgusting.’

‘Mmmm,’ I said.

But Dad hadn’t homed in on the aggressive little scene in Wines and Spirits. His interest was closer to home. He’d picked up a box containing a hideous plastic crinoline lady full of strawberry-scented bubble bath.

‘It’s criminal! An outer pack — an inner pack — about ten grams of high grade coloured plastic — and all to package a teaspoonful of artificial strawberry-scented detergent. Do you know what stuff like this is doing to the ozone layer?’

‘Making a hole in it, Dad,’ I replied dutifully.

‘Too right it is,’ he said, passing the pack to me. He took charge of the trolley and steamed off towards the check-out. ‘Come on, we’re going to take a stand on this one.’ I was left to trail behind carrying the gross crinoline lady.

I’d had scenes like this before. Incredibly mortifying scenes with everyone staring at us as if we’d gone totally insane. Scenes with poor harrassed staff trying to keep their cool and churn out all that ‘the customer’s always right’ stuff they learn in supermarket school, while Dad ranted on making a total prat of himself.

Dad had rounded the bend at the end of Shampoos and Conditioners when we were caught in a knot of people. A traffic jam of trolleys and mums and kids had built up. That’s when we came face to face with them.

The guy with the dreadlocks took one look at what I was carrying, raised an eyebrow and made an ‘isn’t it cute’ face. The guy with the square-topped hairdo raised his can of lager like a salute and he just said ‘Hi.’

‘Hi,’ I said. And then they moved on.

Dad stood there staring after them. ‘Do you know those people?’

‘Yes, no … Umm, one of them lives in our street … I think.’

‘Not that squatter that’s moved into number twenty five?’

Dad didn’t need an answer, my face said it all.

‘Nice friends he’s got. Your mother’s right. You don’t want to have anything to do with them.’

‘Yes, Dad.’

Dad continued positively fuming. We joined a checkout queue and I dutifully started to load the conveyor.

‘And what about that?’ asked the girl, indicating the bubble bath I was holding. ‘Do you want it or don’t you?’

‘Want it? How could anyone want anything as repulsive as that?’ demanded Dad.

The check-out lady looked affronted. She obviously wasn’t used to having people criticising her merchandise. Well, if you don’t want it, just leave it on one side.’

‘I don’t want it. I want to take it through and complain about it.’

‘You’ll have to pay for it first then and get a refund.’

Dad looked as if he was about to explode.

‘You are asking me to pay for this … This … excrescence?’

‘If you want to take it through, yes.’

A little queue was building up behind us. A lady one back, wearing designer sunglasses with gilt bits on them, stopped devouring the ‘Mediterranean Recipe’ card she’d pinched from the rack and gave us a withering glance.

‘I say. Why don’t you just jolly well pay and be done with it?’ she said.

‘Yes,’ agreed a guy three or so people back. We haven’t got all morning.’ He was wearing a tight T-shirt that read ‘Expansion Tank’ across his stomach and didn’t look like the kind of person you’d want to have an argument with. A baby strapped into a plastic seat set up a mournful howl in agreement.

‘I’d like to speak to the Manager.’ Dad was standing his ground.

The check-out lady put her on her little flashing light with a sigh and we all stood and waited.

‘Look mate, why don’t you just pay for what you’ve got and ‘op-it,’ said the bloke in the expandable T-shirt.

I don’t really want to go into the details. Let’s just say we came very close indeed to causing a riot and ended up at the Complaints Desk with an angry crowd gathered round Dad listening to his standard speech on the evils of packaging and the imminent destruction of rainforests and polar icecaps and the inundation of most of the Netherlands. I stood a few yards away, guarding our trolley, praying for an earthquake to cause a gaping hole to appear in Sainsbury’s floor and swallow me up.

And yes, the boys had reached the check-out. They weren’t going to be allowed to miss out on a scene like this. Oh no. They were finding the whole situation most fun. I could see the flat-top haircut guy practically peeing himself. Dreadlocks was doing a pretty good imitation of Dad by the look of it.

Naturally, they took forever going through — one of their crates of lager wasn’t bar-coded and they had to send an assistant back to check the shelves. I’d moved away, hoping to disassociate myself from Dad’s agonisingly embarrassing performance. But my eyes kept gliding back to check if the boys were still watching him.

That’s when our eyes actually met. You read all those corny things about ‘eyes meeting’. I mean, I’d always thought the whole eye-contact thing was a vast overclaim. But even from this distance, I could see that his were greeny-hazel and kind of — intense. They went right through me. To add the ultimate touch to my humiliation, I felt myself blushing. I had to turn round and study a poster for Spicy Thai Prawn Paella to get over it.

When I felt composed enough to turn back, I found they were making for the exit. They’d practically bought up the whole store’s supply of beers. By the look of it they were going to have some party.