Topping the Jock

Chapter Nine

A.N. A whole box of Jaffa cakes was consumed during the writing of this chapter - Uma Thurman has been cast as Remy's mum.

CHAPTER NINE - REMY'S DARLING P.O.V

I was in deep, deep shit.

"You know I love you, I'm your mother, after all," she claimed, "but cross me and you're dead. Next time I tell you you're curfew is 8.00 PM, you need to get home before 8.00 PM. Got it?" She gave me a deadly look, like I was the most ungrateful degenerate she'd ever had the misfortune to be related to. And I suppose I was. She hated me.

"Whatever," I drolled, breathing out a long breath to let her know how uncomfortable I was with this situation. She'd caught me trying to sneak in the back of the house ten minutes passed my curfew. Ten bloody minutes, and there she stood, acting like the world was ending. It probably was for her, a woman who only cared about what people thought.

Her hands planted firmly on her busty hips, cocking her entire body at me in a way that told me the second I walked through the back door that I was in deep shit. My mother was what you could call an absolute queen. Extremely British, and extremely conservative. She was graceful like a swan, regal like a queen, but treacherous like a snake. And what was worse, she was the nicer parent.

She stood there stern. She was a cocky woman, a little stocky around the edges and curves, but perfect in a motherly kind of way. She was the stereotypical housewife, with the floral apron, a suitable collection of dull grey sweaters and plain beige trousers, because God forbid she would wear a skirt. How unbecoming of her, a modern woman, to wear a skirt, and reveal so much of her body! How shocking! Note the sarcasm, darlings.

"Don't you dare 'whatever' me, son. Where were you? Tell me honestly, where were you? With that Jaspar boy, because you know we don't like him. Or was it Oliver, because we don't much appreciate his foul-mouthed language. We don't like him either," she warned, waggling her finger in my face.

By 'we' she obviously meant daddy dearest, the overweight workaholic that couldn't really give a shit about his children, but was more than willing to show them the back of his hand if they stepped out of line. And even then, he never actually laid a hand on Joshuanne, the golden sibling.

I was ten minutes late, it wasn't like I was out doing scandalous things. Besides, my sister she was the real problem-child in this family, so why the Hell was Mum lecturing me about coming in late when Joshuanne probably wouldn't be back until winter hibernation?

Oh yeah, Joshuanne was the golden child. She could never do anything out of line, she couldn't possibly do anything wrong, not the perfect Joshuanne. Except, what they didn't know about Joshuanne was, as she always likes to point out, she was a 'wild thing'.

More power to her.

"Okay, right, whatever, Mum. I get it. 8.00 PM next time, yeah?"

I decided I'd had enough of her bullshit. Both my parents hated me. I was as happy-go-lucky and tolerant as the next seventeen year old, but I just didn't understand my parents. I loved them. They just didn't love me, never have and I suspected they never would.

"And what on Earth is that jumper? What've we told you about dressing inappropriately?" she asked, passing me a look of mutual distaste at my blue Mean Girls jumper.

"It's called style, not that you ever had any," I grumbled, averting my eyes from her. I couldn't stand to look at her. This was just another one of her daily lectures on my clothes, my hair, my personality, my friends, my school work, my lifestyle. She considered me intolerant, but this woman was the epitome of intolerant. She was the idealistic, conservative, 1950's housewife that everyone expected her to be. What a way to break the mould, right?