Title: The
Wrong Side of Twenty-Five
Author: Kate Armitage
Genre: women's fiction
Release Date: December
28th, 2017
Blurb
With newsfeeds full of perfect pouts, hot-dog legs and the
self-proclaimed hashtag-blessed, it’s hard not to feel inadequate. How has
everyone figured out how to live their best life except you?
That’s what Kylie wants to know. She
thought she would spend her twenty-fifth birthday having
a mini-break not a mini-breakdown. After an evening of
finger-food and snide remarks, Kylie decides that things must change.
Naturally, Alexa disagrees. She doesn’t think anything needs to change and is
quite happy plodding on with her best friend by her side. So, when everything
changes for the better for Alexa, while it’s going from bad to worse for Kylie;
will it tear them apart?
Buy the Book:
Amazon (universal) Link
Excerpt
Kylie
The
sink is blocked again. The plug isn’t in and yet there sits a murky pool of
water. I don’t have
time
for this. I only dashed home to change before I go to Mum’s, but upon arrival I
was greeted
with
a large note on the fridge from Lucie saying I
cleaned the kitchen but I’m not cleaning the
mess
you made in the sink – sort it out! The
sensible thing to do would be to leave it until later
but
it doesn’t bear thinking about if she comes home before I do and finds the sink
as she left it.
Lucie
might be petite, but she’s strong from years of gymnastics and running.
Instead, I poke at
viscous
water with a wooden spoon. But it does nothing except make me look like a
modern-day
witch
hovering over a cauldron. It’s a shame I’m not, I could do with a spell. The
sink belches
and
bubbles and for a moment I think I’ve done it, but nothing else happens and the
water
remains.
I look at the clock on the kitchen wall. Shit. If I don’t get ready now, I’ll
miss my train.
Does
anyone else have an area in their room dedicated to clothes that aren’t dirty
enough to
justify
washing but don’t want to wear two days in a row? I like to think we all do but
some are
more
vocal about it than others. If you genuinely don’t and you’re thinking I’m
disgusting well,
I’d
like to let you know that washing perfectly wearable clothes is a waste of
water and electric.
I’m
just doing my bit for the environment. That’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it.
My
clean-enough clothes live on the chair that I bought so I could sit at my desk
and be
productive.
I stand before it, wondering what to wear. So many clothes lay before me; some
even
spilling
off the chair and onto the desk, which itself is buried under half-finished
notebooks,
important
paperwork, bus tickets, receipts, the contents of a make-up bag, an empty
make-up bag
and
books that I have been meaning to give to charity for the past year. They’re
mostly vampire
books,
back when vampires were crammed in to every new piece of literature. I fell for
the
vampire
craze hook, line and sinker… but I’m over them now. Right, on with the hunt for
something
to wear. I take off my leggings, because I don’t plan on wearing a dress and
wearing
them
as trousers just won’t do. ‘Leggings are not trousers’ Mum will say. I find
some black
skinny
jeans from the floor and a respectable top from the pile on the chair. It looks
good, if a
little
creased. I would iron it but I don’t think I own an iron. Instead, I reach over
for my hair
straighteners
and switch them on. As they heat up, I start applying the least amount of
make-up
that
I can get away with. I rub at my eyelids with eye shadow, because despite how
often I watch
tutorials
on how to apply make-up, it’s still a mystery to me. I won’t be
hashtag-declaring myself
as
a make-up artist any time soon. Besides, it looks so exhausting. When did
everyone start
filling
in their eyebrows?
The
straighteners are ready so I press them around the collar and hem of my top,
taking care
not
to burn my body or worse, face. I’d rather not do that again; last time I ended
up with a nasty
blister
on my chin. With my top looking almost respectable, I turn my attention to my
hair. The
thing
about my hair is that it’s neither straight nor curly but just cavemanesque. In
my nearly
twenty-five
years of life I haven’t figured out what to do with it except take the outer
layer of
hair
that has frizzed from a night of being smushed against my pillow and create
waves with
straighteners.
I don’t own a curling tong. Necessity is the mother of invention, right?
Speaking
of mother, I better catch a train and see mine. I slip into some shoes and pick
up my
phone
when I notice a message from Alexa. Don’t
miss your train!
Sometimes
I’m sure she has a camera installed in my house. I look around, paranoid. Don’t
worry,
I’m absolutely on top of things.
I
doubt it. Are you ready for Saturday night? Have you decided what to wear?
I
roll my eyes at Alexa’s incessant need to be prepared for everything and reply Of
course I’m
prepared.
I was born prepared. Don’t worry about it.
But
I do worry, Kylie. And you weren’t born prepared, you were three weeks late and
needed
medical
assistance. So once again, have you decided what you’re going to wear?
Yes,
yes, a thousand times yes. Anyway, must dash.
I
knew it, you’re running late. Have fun!
Have
fun, she says, after all she knows about my mum. She’s so sarcastic when
there’s no one
but
me to witness it. I put the phone in my bag, head downstairs and take one last
look at the
kitchen
clock. Shit. I might have to run after all.
I
ring the bell and Mum opens the door. Is it just my imagination or is she
disappointed to see
me?
‘Come
in,’ she says as she heads to the kitchen, without so much as a ‘hello’, let
alone a ‘nice
to
see you’. Instead she stands with her back to me, preparing the kettle to make
a round of
drinks.
I don’t care, my attention is on the array of finger food before me: egg and
mayonnaise
sandwiches
cut into triangles, party rings, hot dog sausages, and cheese and pineapple on
sticks
are
displayed nicely on the dining table as well as a chocolate caterpillar cake
sitting proudly in
the
middle. It’s not a birthday without a chocolate caterpillar cake.
‘This
looks amazing,’ I say as my mouth salivates.
‘Yes,
well, I did offer to take you out but you insisted on a finger food buffet.’
I
almost laugh at the exasperation and pain in her voice. ‘I love finger food,
Mum. It’s the best
bit
about my birthday.’
‘Yes,
your appetite has never truly matured. We could have gone somewhere nice.’
I
roll my eyes and help myself to a sausage roll. ‘This is fine, Mum. Honestly.’
‘We
could have gone to that posh gastropub that’s opened up around the corner.’
‘Putting
the word gastro in front of the word pub doesn’t make it posh, Mum.’ In fact,
the
name
alone puts me off seeing as gastro as a prefix is generally reserved for
stomach problems.
‘Oh
sorry, Kylie, we aren’t all as cosmopolitan as you.’
There’s
annoyance in her voice now as she puts a cup of coffee in front of me and taps
my
hand,
which is shovelling food into my mouth.
‘Wait
until everyone gets here, please.’
‘Who’s
coming?’
‘Oh,
just Nan and Grandad, and Auntie Julia.’
‘Oh,
that’ll be nice,’ I lie. We sit and sip our hot drinks together. I can’t help
but notice she’s
looking
at me, with a frown on her face that tells me she’s mentally scrutinising my appearance.
‘How’s
Robbie?’ I ask, as a distraction. Robbie’s my brother. He’s much younger and we
have
little
in common. What we do have in common is that we were named after pop stars. He
was
named
after Robbie Williams and I was named after Kylie Minogue, if you hadn’t guessed
already.
The whole naming-your-kid-after-fleeting-celebrities is a bloody awful idea,
thanks
Mum.
I could have had a normal name with potential for nicknames but no I had to be
Kylie. A
name
that sticks out for all the wrong reasons. It can’t be shortened unless I want
to be Ky, which I don’t, or Lee which I can’t because that’s my surname. Yep.
My name’s Kylie Lee.
Mum
must have hated me from the moment I was conceived.
‘We’ve
just found out he’s got in to the college
of his choice for September.’
I
nearly choke on my tea. ‘College?’ Surely not. Am I missing something?
‘Yes,
college. Why?’ She looks at me like I’m mad.
‘But…
he’s like thirteen!’
‘He’s
sixteen next month, Kylie. You do exaggerate.’
I
do the maths in my head and she’s right, he’s sixteen next month.
‘Unbelievable.’
Nan,
Grandad and Auntie Julia arrive and I stand accepting hugs and greetings from
each of
them
while Mum calls down Dad and Robbie.
‘Kylie!’
Grandad hugs me and stuffs fifty pounds in my fist at the same time, like he always
does
when he sees me. ‘I can’t believe you’re nearly twenty-five, how does it feel?’
‘I
can’t say I feel much different, Grandad.’ After all, age is but a number.
‘So,
Kylie. How are you getting on in the city on your own?’ asks Auntie Julia.
‘Good,
thanks. I’ve been living there years, it feels like home now.’
‘Oh,
of course, but I mean how are you getting on in terms of finding your feet? Any
promotions
recently? Any big plans?’
‘Not
exactly.’ By not exactly, I mean, not at all.
‘No?
Too busy running around the city chasing boys and drinking cocktails?’
‘Er,
well…’ I don’t know what to say. The truth is far from chasing boys and
drinking
cocktails.
More like stalking boys on social media and drinking whatever is on
buy-one-get-onefree.
Thankfully
Dad pokes his head through the door, cutting my conversation with Auntie Julia
short.
What a shame.
‘Hey,
love. Happy Birthday for Saturday.’
I
smile at him. ‘Thanks, Dad.’
Just
then, Robbie plods in, clearly coerced by Mum who stands unnaturally close
behind him.
‘Right,
now that everyone’s here, Kylie can open her presents. Oh, hang on, I need to
take a
photo.’
Mum spends the next few minutes setting the scene, making sure everything is perfect.
‘Come
on you lot, stand closer together.’ She gestures us to move closer.
As
Mum sorts the lighting, I see Dad roll his eyes to himself. It makes me happy
knowing Dad
feels
somewhat like I do in regard to Mum and her business of making a fuss.
‘Okay
everyone, say Happy Birthday!’
‘But
it’s not her birthday,’ says Robbie.
‘I
know but she’s too busy to see her parents on her actual birthday so this will
have to do.’
There’s
resentment in her voice, and a sense of ‘woe is me’. Everyone clearly senses it
too, and
plays
along.
‘Happy
Birthday!’
‘Lovely,
let me just check it looks nice and no one was blinking—’
‘It’ll
be fine, Marie; can the poor girl open her presents now?’ Only Dad could get
away with
undermining
Mum like this.
I
open my gifts and look pleased when I’m supposed to and thank everyone for the
usual loot
of
chocolate and toiletries. I always need toiletries and if I manage it well I
can make my
Christmas
toiletries last until my birthday ones and make those last until Christmas. When
I open
a
card from Mum and Dad, £300 falls out. Kerching! ‘Thanks, you guys!’ Oh, the
things I could
buy.
What do I need? More importantly, what do I want? I’m already mentally spending
the
entire
amount.
‘That’s
enough for a provisional license, theory test and a handful of lessons,’ Mum
says.
‘What?’
I’m not even listening. I’ve pulled my phone out for a spot of online shopping.
It’s
enough
for something nice from Michael Kors. Who needs a man to buy me nice jewellery when
I can buy my own? I’m an independent woman.
Although I wouldn’t mind a man buying me nice
jewellery…
‘Well,
you’re twenty-five on Saturday. Don’t you think it’s about time you learned to
drive?’
‘Oh,
Mum, no one drives in the city. There’s never anywhere to park on the street anyway.’
‘Even
if you don’t get a car straight away, you don’t want to wait too long to learn
to drive.
My
biggest regret was waiting too long. You don’t want to be like me and take your
test with a
massive
bump behind the wheel.’
‘I
certainly don’t want to do anything with a massive bump.’
‘Which
is why you should do it now, before you
have kids.’
‘I’m
not having kids,’ I say. Certainly not any time
soon anyway. No thanks.
Dad
clears his throat for attention. ‘Right, I’ve got an important call to make.
Bye, love. Enjoy
spending
your money.’ With a final nod and a typical Dad smile, he slinks away.
Mum
looks horrified and follows Dad. ‘Pete! You do not walk out when I’ve planned a
nice
event.
How do you think that makes me feel?’
Mum
can’t help but make everything about her, even my birthday. I would be annoyed
but I’m
just
glad the attention has been taken away from me and all the kids she’s planned
for me to
have.
Mum
sits back down, her face thunderous. ‘Where were we? Before we were rudely
interrupted.’
‘We
were about to—’
Auntie
Julia cuts in, ‘Kylie was saying she’s not having kids.’
‘Ah,
yes. Well you can’t know that for sure,
darling. I didn’t think I was but then I married
your
dad and eight months later, there you were. Some things just happen.’
I
shrug, ‘and some things just don’t happen, at least not for a long time.’
‘You
never know. Maybe soon you’ll finally be serious with someone. Do you have a
boyfriend?’
Happy
birthday to me! I can’t think of anything better than declaring my long-term
singleness
to
my immediate family. ‘No…’
‘Marie,
maybe she’s one of those lesbians. It’s very trendy now,’ says Nan, to my
horror.
Mum
shakes her head, ‘she’s definitely not a lesbian.’
‘But
what about that girl who comes as her plus one to everything?’ asks Nan, as if
I’m not in
the
room, ‘Alexandra?’
‘Oh
goodness, she’s not dating Alexa. I’ll admit, they’re unnaturally close but
it’s purely
platonic.
No, Kylie’s definitely straight. And single.’ The last word echoes around the
room,
bouncing
off everybody and coming back to bite me.
‘I
am here you know!’ I tell Mum in a huff.
‘I
know you are, darling.’
‘Well,
can you not talk about my love life, or lack-thereof as if I’m not?’
‘Sorry.
I’m just worried, Kylie. Maybe if you put yourself out there a bit more… And
looked a
bit
more presentable. You could start by styling your hair before you leave the
house.’
‘What’s
wrong with my hair?’
‘It’s
just like your father’s was in the 80s before he started balding and I finally
got him to
shave
it.’
‘Leave
her alone, Marie. I think all the young women have hair like that nowadays.’
‘Thanks,
Auntie Julia.’ You’re wrong but I appreciate the support.
‘You’re
right, Julia.’ Mum takes a deep breath, ‘I’m sorry, Kylie.’
Good
God, I wonder if I can get her to say it again and this time record it.
‘Now
don’t worry,’ she soothes, as if she wasn’t the one who started this, ‘it’ll
soon work itself
out.
Do you go to the pub often? I found your dad at the local pub quiz a cold
winter’s evening.
We
had a joint mortgage by summer on this house.’
‘Marie,
I’m sure she gets out plenty living in a city. I bet she goes on loads of dates
when she’s
not
chasing her career. Young women nowadays are all about their careers.’
‘Is
that true, Kylie? Are you all about your
career?’ Mum looks at me, wanting reassurance
and
hoping that my life isn’t as shit as she
fears.
‘Yes,
I am,’ I lie. I’ve lied in this kitchen a lot, but it’s been a
while. The last time I lied here I
was
seventeen and swearing to Mum that I wasn’t hungover, but genuinely just sick.
I laid it on
thick
and she eventually bought it and tucked me up in bed. Later that day, Dad
brought me up a
bacon
sandwich with a knowing smile. Somehow, he knew and he was happy to keep it a
secret.
‘Well,’
says Mum, collecting herself now, aware of herself, ‘then I guess you have
nothing to
worry
about. I’m sure you’ll make good choices on how to spend your money, although I
do
suggest
driving lessons.’
I
smile with appreciation and reach for another sausage roll. ‘And maybe a gym
pass,’ she says
as
I stuff it into my mouth.
I
sit, no longer eating, and wait while Mum buzzes around the kitchen fussing
over everything
until
she decides it’s time to light the cake. No one smokes anymore and Mum flaps
about
looking
for a lighter. ‘Oh, this is ridiculous, Pete,’ she huffs, addressing my Dad who
isn’t even
in
the room. ‘You might not smoke now but what if we had a power cut and needed to
light some
candles?
Do we even have candles? If there’s an apocalypse how will we survive?’ she
looks
through
the drawer of miscellaneous crap. You know the drawer, the one crammed with
takeaway
leaflets,
spare keys, plasters, and hopefully a lighter or Mum will definitely have some
sort
of
nervous breakdown.
‘Are
you looking forward to college?’ I ask my brother, who has his head in his phone.
‘Yeah,’
he grunts in response.
‘Good,’
I say. Well, what a riveting conversation that was. Why do I bother?
Suddenly
I’m plunged into darkness. The room is filled with everyone singing Happy Birthday
slightly
out of sync with each other as the cake, and now fully lit candles, is placed on the table.
‘Make
a wish, Kylie!’
What
do I want in my twenty-sixth year of life? I thought I wanted something nice by Michael
Kors
and for my favourite black dress to fit
me again, but now I can’t help wonder if my
priorities
are wrong. Maybe I should wish for a solid career. Perhaps a boyfriend. After
all, I’m
twenty-five
tomorrow and have neither. As I sit having an existential crisis with all of my
family
waiting
expectantly, melted wax drips onto my cake. Shit. I close my eyes and think. I
wish to
have
all the things I should, and also to fit in my favourite
black dress. Then I blow out the
candles
and everyone cheers. The lights come back on and I pick the face off the chocolate caterpillar cake.
Author
Kate Armitage is a
writer from England who has three cats, two children and one husband. She lives an alarmingly
conventional life which surprises everyone who speaks to her for more than five
minutes. She spends her days knee-deep in play-doh and spends her nights elbow deep in manuscripts.
Sometimes she lets the children also use the play-doh but only if they promise
not to mix the colours.
