Better Off Different
A Boxing Day fic (that spiralled slightly out of control) for gespawcho , who requested Naomi Cook friendship/bonding. Hope this is what you were looking for!
Better Off Different
Naomi
It was bound to happen really. Some cock up was never too far over the horizon in her household. It'd been going so well, too, all things considered. Far better than previous years.
Christmas at their house never felt like the Christmas everyone else seemed to experience. For one thing, her mum couldn't decide if she was a pagan or not. Naomi can still vividly remember her twelfth Christmas, when her mum had insisted they open presents on the 22nd - 'Happy Winter Solstice darling!' - and then had walked her up some relentless bloody hill and hacked through the frozen ground to plant an oak sapling. Even at that age Naomi had strongly suspected that pagans didn't actually do that, and had felt oddly triumphant when they went back to visit it in March, and the pitiful thing had died.
These days, her mum appeared to be atheist, but a strong believer in auras, karma, and the mystic nature of the universe, or some such bollocks. This translated to a nut roast lunch (awful), a gift informing Naomi she'd been bought seven goats for a struggling African community, and an afternoon watching the TV while her mum scoffed at Western consumerism.
Which was all well and good, but Naomi quite liked those chocolate oranges, and would have quite happily accepted being 'another slave to the money machine' if it meant she could have eaten a whole one before half nine in the morning, like normal people did on Christmas day.
Boxing Day was usually wank too. A full day in tribute to the God of Indigestion. But this morning, Naomi finds the snow had stuck, and her pillow still smells of Emily's shampoo, and maybe today can be good, too.
Naomi hisses sharply as her bare foot comes into contact with the the icy floor in their kitchen. Campaigning to get rid of the tiles is annual argument that Naomi never wins, because her mum is a stubborn twat over inconsequential details. Naomi doesn't plan on wearing slippers at any point during this lifetime, meaning she plays an elaborate obstacle course each winter morning, in an effort to not touch the floor.
On reaching the fridge she finds....well, her mum is clearly an idiot, because what kind of maniac puts a chocolate orange in the fridge? Fool. Naomi hits it hard on the wooden table. Nothing. And then the kitchen light flickers off, and the house whirred into silence.
'Mum? MUM?'
Powercut. Maybe the ice had got on the lines, or something? That sounds plausible. Naomi glares around the kitchen, tries to remember where her mum kept the candles.
'MUM?'
Her mum's bedroom always smells of incense and the queer heat pack thing she uses on her dodgy shoulder. Naomi's line of inquiry produces something that sounds like groan of horror from beneath the duvet. When Gina's face emerges it is wearing the awful 'I need a favour smile' that makes Naomi's eyes roll pre-emptively, Pavlov style.
'What?'
'Darling, I forgot to top up the electric. I don't suppose...'
The rest of Gina's request is lost in the warmth of her bedroom, as Naomi's already half way down the stairs, raging at the incompetance of mothers everywhere. What was it with them, really? They're all, tiny gesture here, massive failure there. It's snowed, it's fucking Boxing Day, the garage will be the only place open that tops up their card, and a chocolate orange will never be e-fucking-nough. In fact, from this day forth, they will always be synonymous with betrayal and parental failure. Cow. So no, Naomi won't go and top the fucking thing up. She's going to make a stand, prove once and for all that her mum is a selfish tool who fails at life generally, and specifically to do with her daughter.
Although, it is getting a bit cold inside.
Cook
Snow was right overrated in his opinion. Cold water that sits on top of his trainers, rather than sliding off it, is nothing to celebrate. S'quite good though, being able to flick lumps of it at passing cars with his feet only, keeping his hands as warm as possible in the winter air. But even that was becoming a bit of a challenge. When he'd woke, Cook had discovered some dick had chucked up on his jacket. And, though Cook usually ignored such things, he did have some fucking standards. It was a shit jacket anyway. Better off without. But it did mean he was pocketless today.
Watching his breath swirl and condense reminds him of fags, reminds him he hasn’t had one in a while. Funds are a bit of an issue at the moment.
Some tosspot is trudging through the snow towards him, looking like they were off on some Arctic expedition. It takes Cook a while to figure out if they are male or female, so wrapped up is the figure against the cold. Only when they catch sight of him, and groan like they’d just stepped in shit, that Cook realises who it is. ‘Wow, there’s a nice cheery greeting. That’s nice, real fucking sweet. Merry Christmas to you too.’
Naomi blinks a couple of times at him, then shrugs and pulled her scarf down from her face. ‘Yeah, that maybe was a bit harsh. I’m having a bad day, alright?’
Sniffing hugely, Cook looks over Naomi’s right shoulder at a car that’s trundling slowly towards them. ‘Already, Nai-kins? It’s not even gone half ten. How can you be having a bad day already? Emily have morning breath or something?’
‘Oh, fuck off Cook. I retract my apology. Just...family, you know. Too much family time.’
Cook thinks about pointing out that Naomi is pretty deluded if she believes that she’s actually apologised, settles instead for kicking a lump of snow at the tyres of the already struggling car. ‘Yeah, I hear family time can be shit.’
Naomi’s mouth twists to the side, as if she was thinking about saying something, but then reconsiders. She gestured vaguely down the road. ‘So, our electric ran out, I’ve got to go to the garage to top up.’
Cook isn’t really listening now, because Naomi’s carrying his answer to Christmas, tucked away at her side. ‘Oi, you eating that?’
By the time Naomi has cottoned on to what he’s talking about his hand is already in her coat pocket.
‘Oh. No, I was going to save it. Besides, it is too hard right now.’
‘Too much of a girl to break it? Allow me.’'
Cook pinches the chocolate orange from her grasp before Naomi can protest, and in one swift movement smashes it against his forehead.
Fucking... fuck. Jesus! Had she frozen this? Fucking... skull feels like it’s been fractured. Screwing up his face tight deals with some of the immediate pain, and he smacks the globe against the wall by way of distraction. This time he feels it give, and he tries to hand it back with a grin.
Naomi is staring at his forehead in a funny way, and before rolling her eyes and switching her gaze.
'Impressive.'
Sarky again, but at least he can use her lack of interest to press a handful of snow on his skull to numb the pain. Through gritted teeth he tries to wrap things up.
So, petrol station, yeah? Don't let me keep you.
If Naomi is startled by the swift gear change, she doesn't show it.
'Right. Later.'
Naomi
Something uncomfortable twists in Naomi’s stomach when she realises Cook is in the same spot as she walks back. She’s having a hard time understanding why he is just hanging around, rather than being somewhere warm. Though, there is an obvious explanation, but she’d rather avoid it if possible.
‘Where the other two clowns then?’
‘Jay’s gone to visit his grandparents. Freds is with family.’
Family. That word again. Naomi would feel guilty that she’d never asked, but on the other hand Cook doesn’t leave much space for small talk, what with all the cock jokes.
And he is a bit of a cock, on reflection. But he also looks cold, and, well, Christmas can excuse any number of poor decisions.
‘You coming then? Me and mum are a bit sick of each other’s company.’
Naomi thinks Cook is going to refuse for a second, his face freezes in an odd way, like he’s being caught doing something he shouldn’t. Then it’s gone, and he’s pushing himself up off the wall, falling into step next to her. ‘Missing a man’s presence? Don’t worry, get me warmed up and I’ll be man enough for both of you.’
She punches him on the shoulder half heartedly, refusing to laugh because that sort of behaviour shouldn’t be encouraged. ‘Oh good, we were looking for someone to come and head-butt their way through a wall, think you’ll be man enough?’
Cook laughs loudly at that, and throws an arm around her in a way that would be mortifying if anyone was actually watching.
Gina
Naomi’s new friend seemed...a trifle odd. He’d introduced himself as Cook, and then Naomi had corrected it to James, but Gina was happy to call the boy Cook, goodness knows these young people needed their identities. He’d insisted on helping her top up the electric as well, even though Gina had done it countless times before. But he seemed so eager to be useful she’d asked him to replace a light bulb that she’d never gotten round to.
‘Right ladies, stand well back.’
Gina watches her daughter roll her eyes and take an enormous, sarcastic step backwards. Cook is balanced on a chair in a manner most discomforting to look at, so she doesn’t, she puts the kettle on instead.
Cook turns out to drink neither tea nor coffee, but does polish off quarter of a bottle of sherry with ease.
‘Fucking rank that, Mrs C.’
‘Yes, it isn’t the best vintage, frankly. It’s the sort of drink you can only drink if you are already drunk, if you follow.’
Naomi’s sitting opposite Cook, nursing a cup of tea and drumming her fingers. Cook winks, and Naomi mutters arsehole under her breath, which makes Cook laugh in a way not many people do at an insult, and the idea of Naomi making friends with this boy is not an unpleasant one, so Gina allows it to linger, gives it space to grow. Or she will, once some ground rules have been established.
‘Firstly, Cook, you realise my daughter is currently seeing a nice girl called Emily. You must have no romantic ambitions.’
‘Mum! Jesus. Will you stop telling every randomer you encounter about Emily?’
Naomi looks like she is about to continue, but Cook reaches a hand across, pats Naomi’s in a really quite gentlemanly way, and sooths her.
‘It’s alright Naomi, word had gotten round about your epic love affair. Promise not to try and win your heart.’
‘Fuck off, you complete wanker.’
Gina tuts her daughter, because, honestly, where she gets her attitude from is a mystery. Cook doesn’t seem upset, but Gina apologises anyway.
‘Secondly dear, you must realise that my daughter can be quite an obnoxious twat when she wants. I do hope you can see past this.’
Now Naomi’s swearing again, and leaves the room even as Cook’s magnanimously accepting the apology, smile wide on his face. He jumps up and puts Naomi’s abandoned mug in the sink, and then hovers awkwardly for a moment. Gina smiles,
‘Finally, are you any good at Jenga?’
Naomi
Bloody disaster, the current set up downstairs. Made worse by Emily’s complete lack of sympathy over the phone. What’s the point of having a girlfriend if they are not automatically on your side? It had sounded like she was trying not to laugh.
Part of the point of bringing Cook home was to wind her mother up. How was she supposed to anticipate that he was suddenly going to make nice? An hour and a half and not a single sexist joke. Such a let down. And mum, fluttering over him like he was a wounded hedgehog, like he needed fixing. Awful.
Cook
Jenga was fucking mint, he was definitely going to say yes the next time JJ badgered him about it.
The only slightly awkward thing is that the Campbell mum keeps trying to make conversation. Usually talking to people was well easy for Cook, but he senses that his regular topics, (sex, drugs, getting shit-faced, why Freddie was a prick sometimes) would result in Naomi physically ripping his balls off, so Cook’s a bit stumped.
The questions weren’t awkward, but Cook is aware that his answers don’t seem to be hitting the mark. Besides, his best Christmas present really was that pitcher of lager from Uncle Keith. Not much festive sparkle can be added to those facts.
He’s beginning to worry that she’s feeling sorry for him, which makes his scalp prickle. It almost makes him refuse the offer of left-overs from the day before, but not quite, especially once Gina had confirmed they owned ketchup. Their couch is comfy, and Cook’s in no rush.
Eventually, Naomi comes stomping down the stairs, rounds the corner and fixes him with a glare so vicious he can’t help but laugh. ‘You’re right good at being angry you know. It’s like, a fine art, you’ve got going on there.’ He grins, and waits for the dickish comment in return, but gets nothing. Naomi waivers for a second, and then slumps into the sofa next to him, stabbing furiously at the TV remote like she’d just caught it taking a dump in her cup of tea, or something.
Five minutes of the fucking BBC Proms, and Cook’s bored. So, for the hell of it, ‘You’re mum sound. Very generous with her booze. I admire that in a person.’
‘Other people usually like her. It’s because she’s fucking nice to everyone. Bloody irritating, especially when I’m trying to remember she’s a useless cow.’
That sounds like the sort of thought process only Naomi could achieve (complicated flower, this one), so Cook doesn’t push it, relaxes into the sofa a bit more. A thought strikes him. ‘You and Emily shagged on this?’
She curls her lip at him, but other than that, she should work in politics, he gets no clue whatsoever. After two more minutes she offers, ‘Mum and Kieran from college have though. I walked in on them and nearly vomited on my shoes, if that adds to your wank fodder in any way.’
Cook casts a half glance in her direction, but can’t tell if Naomi finds that little experience horrifying or just vaguely irritating. He grins at the telly, ‘I’d bet Kieran has a decent sized cock, on reflection.’
Naomi’s eyebrows shoot skywards, and then she laughs, ‘It was ginger, I remember that much.’
‘Figures.’ Cook says, trying to nod sagely.
Gina
She must admit, she can’t remember a time when Naomi seemed quite so intense about a board game. Risk was always a bit of a faff, in her opinion, all those tiny little men on horses, and a map with boundaries so blurred she has to dig out her glasses to see them properly. However, Cook had insisted, and had set up all her army men for her, which was very dear of him.
Naomi’s current move is taking her ages to complete, Gina’s vaguely aware there are some elaborate tactics being employed, as though her daughter can win this game through sheer cunning. Unfortunately for her, Cook’s rather more scatter gun approach seems to be triumphing, in which he isn’t actually consistent in his targets, but rather peppers the board randomly with reinforcements, and attacks her daughter with a poorly hidden glee. His fist pump every time he removes one of Naomi’s soldiers is rather endearing.
Gina isn’t sure of the rules, and the instruction manual is long since lost in the clutter of life, but luckily Cook seems to have an excellent understanding of the rules, and so Gina approves each one he comes out with. Even the ones that seem to disadvantage Naomi hugely, because the look on her daughters face is rather funny, truth be told.
When a rule change means Naomi loses Asia, she bangs her fist on the table so hard all the soldiers fall over, before launching into a four letter tirade against Cook, until Cook is laughing so hard he’s gasping for breath, so hard Gina’s concerned he’s about to faint from lack of oxygen, and everything is rather lovely, really.
Naomi
What a dick. Really though. A complete tool. He’s leaving now, a stuffing sandwich in each pocket, draining the last of their alcohol reserves in the kitchen with her Mum. Who, incidentally, is a prick as well. By the end of it Naomi had strongly suspected Gina was encouraging Cook to cheat, which removes the whole point of the whole fucking game, reduces the fucking thing to a sham.
Naomi huffily reaches up to the coat stand to try and hurry Cook’s departure along, but catches herself when she realises he didn’t have one. And then he is at her elbow, before attempting to suffocate her against the wall. Great, just great. Death by pillock.
After a moment, Naomi recognises the strangulation isn’t an attempt on her life, but a hug, the type she seen rewarded to JJ now and then. In an even greater panic, she tries patting him once on the back, hoping it’ll get her released. When Cook does put her down, Naomi notices her mum has appeared in the door, is watching the scene like it’s some heart-warming nativity play, rather than near assault. Cook is patting down her hair, and if this isn’t the fucking weirdest Boxing Day she’ll ever have, Naomi doesn’t want to know how it could be stranger.
‘Naomi. It’s been a pleasure. You’re mum’s a legend, and you’re right fucking decent for inviting me round in the first place, even though you think I’m a cock.’
Naomi scratches awkwardly at the back of her neck, wrong footed suddenly. ‘Yeah, right, well, you’re welcome. You aren’t that irritating I suppose, though you fucking cheat at board games.’
Cook is nodding happily at the accusation, even her Mum is smiling along, and suddenly Naomi can’t help grinning briefly at him, before sobering quickly. ‘Don’t expect regular invites round though. Once a year I can deal with, just about.
‘Oh, unlucky Nai-kins,’ Cook announces, fishing a sandwich out of his pocket, ‘I’ll be over often. Me and your mum have a business arrangement.’
Naomi blinks, before turning to her mum. ‘What?’
‘Yes, dear, you see..’ and suddenly her mum is blathering on about her difficulties in getting a regular supplier of ‘marijuana, for my shoulder’, and how Cook helpfully volunteered his services, as Cook is chipping in with his promises that it’ll be ‘at a discount rate Mrs C, seeing as you’re a classy lady’, all the while eating his sandwich with a downright smug look on his face.
At the end of it, Naomi’s run out of words, settles for an eye-roll that doesn’t do the occasion justice, but that’s just it about Cook, he wears you down eventually.
‘You are a twat, Cook. Never forget. But, Merry Christmas, dickhead.’
Cook’s grabbing her again, and this time presses a kiss to her cheek. ‘Pass that on to Emily,’ he grins, flicking his tongue once at her, ‘In a manner of speaking.’
He’s gone before she can kick him.
Better Off Different
Naomi
It was bound to happen really. Some cock up was never too far over the horizon in her household. It'd been going so well, too, all things considered. Far better than previous years.
Christmas at their house never felt like the Christmas everyone else seemed to experience. For one thing, her mum couldn't decide if she was a pagan or not. Naomi can still vividly remember her twelfth Christmas, when her mum had insisted they open presents on the 22nd - 'Happy Winter Solstice darling!' - and then had walked her up some relentless bloody hill and hacked through the frozen ground to plant an oak sapling. Even at that age Naomi had strongly suspected that pagans didn't actually do that, and had felt oddly triumphant when they went back to visit it in March, and the pitiful thing had died.
These days, her mum appeared to be atheist, but a strong believer in auras, karma, and the mystic nature of the universe, or some such bollocks. This translated to a nut roast lunch (awful), a gift informing Naomi she'd been bought seven goats for a struggling African community, and an afternoon watching the TV while her mum scoffed at Western consumerism.
Which was all well and good, but Naomi quite liked those chocolate oranges, and would have quite happily accepted being 'another slave to the money machine' if it meant she could have eaten a whole one before half nine in the morning, like normal people did on Christmas day.
Boxing Day was usually wank too. A full day in tribute to the God of Indigestion. But this morning, Naomi finds the snow had stuck, and her pillow still smells of Emily's shampoo, and maybe today can be good, too.
Naomi hisses sharply as her bare foot comes into contact with the the icy floor in their kitchen. Campaigning to get rid of the tiles is annual argument that Naomi never wins, because her mum is a stubborn twat over inconsequential details. Naomi doesn't plan on wearing slippers at any point during this lifetime, meaning she plays an elaborate obstacle course each winter morning, in an effort to not touch the floor.
On reaching the fridge she finds....well, her mum is clearly an idiot, because what kind of maniac puts a chocolate orange in the fridge? Fool. Naomi hits it hard on the wooden table. Nothing. And then the kitchen light flickers off, and the house whirred into silence.
'Mum? MUM?'
Powercut. Maybe the ice had got on the lines, or something? That sounds plausible. Naomi glares around the kitchen, tries to remember where her mum kept the candles.
'MUM?'
Her mum's bedroom always smells of incense and the queer heat pack thing she uses on her dodgy shoulder. Naomi's line of inquiry produces something that sounds like groan of horror from beneath the duvet. When Gina's face emerges it is wearing the awful 'I need a favour smile' that makes Naomi's eyes roll pre-emptively, Pavlov style.
'What?'
'Darling, I forgot to top up the electric. I don't suppose...'
The rest of Gina's request is lost in the warmth of her bedroom, as Naomi's already half way down the stairs, raging at the incompetance of mothers everywhere. What was it with them, really? They're all, tiny gesture here, massive failure there. It's snowed, it's fucking Boxing Day, the garage will be the only place open that tops up their card, and a chocolate orange will never be e-fucking-nough. In fact, from this day forth, they will always be synonymous with betrayal and parental failure. Cow. So no, Naomi won't go and top the fucking thing up. She's going to make a stand, prove once and for all that her mum is a selfish tool who fails at life generally, and specifically to do with her daughter.
Although, it is getting a bit cold inside.
Cook
Snow was right overrated in his opinion. Cold water that sits on top of his trainers, rather than sliding off it, is nothing to celebrate. S'quite good though, being able to flick lumps of it at passing cars with his feet only, keeping his hands as warm as possible in the winter air. But even that was becoming a bit of a challenge. When he'd woke, Cook had discovered some dick had chucked up on his jacket. And, though Cook usually ignored such things, he did have some fucking standards. It was a shit jacket anyway. Better off without. But it did mean he was pocketless today.
Watching his breath swirl and condense reminds him of fags, reminds him he hasn’t had one in a while. Funds are a bit of an issue at the moment.
Some tosspot is trudging through the snow towards him, looking like they were off on some Arctic expedition. It takes Cook a while to figure out if they are male or female, so wrapped up is the figure against the cold. Only when they catch sight of him, and groan like they’d just stepped in shit, that Cook realises who it is. ‘Wow, there’s a nice cheery greeting. That’s nice, real fucking sweet. Merry Christmas to you too.’
Naomi blinks a couple of times at him, then shrugs and pulled her scarf down from her face. ‘Yeah, that maybe was a bit harsh. I’m having a bad day, alright?’
Sniffing hugely, Cook looks over Naomi’s right shoulder at a car that’s trundling slowly towards them. ‘Already, Nai-kins? It’s not even gone half ten. How can you be having a bad day already? Emily have morning breath or something?’
‘Oh, fuck off Cook. I retract my apology. Just...family, you know. Too much family time.’
Cook thinks about pointing out that Naomi is pretty deluded if she believes that she’s actually apologised, settles instead for kicking a lump of snow at the tyres of the already struggling car. ‘Yeah, I hear family time can be shit.’
Naomi’s mouth twists to the side, as if she was thinking about saying something, but then reconsiders. She gestured vaguely down the road. ‘So, our electric ran out, I’ve got to go to the garage to top up.’
Cook isn’t really listening now, because Naomi’s carrying his answer to Christmas, tucked away at her side. ‘Oi, you eating that?’
By the time Naomi has cottoned on to what he’s talking about his hand is already in her coat pocket.
‘Oh. No, I was going to save it. Besides, it is too hard right now.’
‘Too much of a girl to break it? Allow me.’'
Cook pinches the chocolate orange from her grasp before Naomi can protest, and in one swift movement smashes it against his forehead.
Fucking... fuck. Jesus! Had she frozen this? Fucking... skull feels like it’s been fractured. Screwing up his face tight deals with some of the immediate pain, and he smacks the globe against the wall by way of distraction. This time he feels it give, and he tries to hand it back with a grin.
Naomi is staring at his forehead in a funny way, and before rolling her eyes and switching her gaze.
'Impressive.'
Sarky again, but at least he can use her lack of interest to press a handful of snow on his skull to numb the pain. Through gritted teeth he tries to wrap things up.
So, petrol station, yeah? Don't let me keep you.
If Naomi is startled by the swift gear change, she doesn't show it.
'Right. Later.'
Naomi
Something uncomfortable twists in Naomi’s stomach when she realises Cook is in the same spot as she walks back. She’s having a hard time understanding why he is just hanging around, rather than being somewhere warm. Though, there is an obvious explanation, but she’d rather avoid it if possible.
‘Where the other two clowns then?’
‘Jay’s gone to visit his grandparents. Freds is with family.’
Family. That word again. Naomi would feel guilty that she’d never asked, but on the other hand Cook doesn’t leave much space for small talk, what with all the cock jokes.
And he is a bit of a cock, on reflection. But he also looks cold, and, well, Christmas can excuse any number of poor decisions.
‘You coming then? Me and mum are a bit sick of each other’s company.’
Naomi thinks Cook is going to refuse for a second, his face freezes in an odd way, like he’s being caught doing something he shouldn’t. Then it’s gone, and he’s pushing himself up off the wall, falling into step next to her. ‘Missing a man’s presence? Don’t worry, get me warmed up and I’ll be man enough for both of you.’
She punches him on the shoulder half heartedly, refusing to laugh because that sort of behaviour shouldn’t be encouraged. ‘Oh good, we were looking for someone to come and head-butt their way through a wall, think you’ll be man enough?’
Cook laughs loudly at that, and throws an arm around her in a way that would be mortifying if anyone was actually watching.
Gina
Naomi’s new friend seemed...a trifle odd. He’d introduced himself as Cook, and then Naomi had corrected it to James, but Gina was happy to call the boy Cook, goodness knows these young people needed their identities. He’d insisted on helping her top up the electric as well, even though Gina had done it countless times before. But he seemed so eager to be useful she’d asked him to replace a light bulb that she’d never gotten round to.
‘Right ladies, stand well back.’
Gina watches her daughter roll her eyes and take an enormous, sarcastic step backwards. Cook is balanced on a chair in a manner most discomforting to look at, so she doesn’t, she puts the kettle on instead.
Cook turns out to drink neither tea nor coffee, but does polish off quarter of a bottle of sherry with ease.
‘Fucking rank that, Mrs C.’
‘Yes, it isn’t the best vintage, frankly. It’s the sort of drink you can only drink if you are already drunk, if you follow.’
Naomi’s sitting opposite Cook, nursing a cup of tea and drumming her fingers. Cook winks, and Naomi mutters arsehole under her breath, which makes Cook laugh in a way not many people do at an insult, and the idea of Naomi making friends with this boy is not an unpleasant one, so Gina allows it to linger, gives it space to grow. Or she will, once some ground rules have been established.
‘Firstly, Cook, you realise my daughter is currently seeing a nice girl called Emily. You must have no romantic ambitions.’
‘Mum! Jesus. Will you stop telling every randomer you encounter about Emily?’
Naomi looks like she is about to continue, but Cook reaches a hand across, pats Naomi’s in a really quite gentlemanly way, and sooths her.
‘It’s alright Naomi, word had gotten round about your epic love affair. Promise not to try and win your heart.’
‘Fuck off, you complete wanker.’
Gina tuts her daughter, because, honestly, where she gets her attitude from is a mystery. Cook doesn’t seem upset, but Gina apologises anyway.
‘Secondly dear, you must realise that my daughter can be quite an obnoxious twat when she wants. I do hope you can see past this.’
Now Naomi’s swearing again, and leaves the room even as Cook’s magnanimously accepting the apology, smile wide on his face. He jumps up and puts Naomi’s abandoned mug in the sink, and then hovers awkwardly for a moment. Gina smiles,
‘Finally, are you any good at Jenga?’
Naomi
Bloody disaster, the current set up downstairs. Made worse by Emily’s complete lack of sympathy over the phone. What’s the point of having a girlfriend if they are not automatically on your side? It had sounded like she was trying not to laugh.
Part of the point of bringing Cook home was to wind her mother up. How was she supposed to anticipate that he was suddenly going to make nice? An hour and a half and not a single sexist joke. Such a let down. And mum, fluttering over him like he was a wounded hedgehog, like he needed fixing. Awful.
Cook
Jenga was fucking mint, he was definitely going to say yes the next time JJ badgered him about it.
The only slightly awkward thing is that the Campbell mum keeps trying to make conversation. Usually talking to people was well easy for Cook, but he senses that his regular topics, (sex, drugs, getting shit-faced, why Freddie was a prick sometimes) would result in Naomi physically ripping his balls off, so Cook’s a bit stumped.
The questions weren’t awkward, but Cook is aware that his answers don’t seem to be hitting the mark. Besides, his best Christmas present really was that pitcher of lager from Uncle Keith. Not much festive sparkle can be added to those facts.
He’s beginning to worry that she’s feeling sorry for him, which makes his scalp prickle. It almost makes him refuse the offer of left-overs from the day before, but not quite, especially once Gina had confirmed they owned ketchup. Their couch is comfy, and Cook’s in no rush.
Eventually, Naomi comes stomping down the stairs, rounds the corner and fixes him with a glare so vicious he can’t help but laugh. ‘You’re right good at being angry you know. It’s like, a fine art, you’ve got going on there.’ He grins, and waits for the dickish comment in return, but gets nothing. Naomi waivers for a second, and then slumps into the sofa next to him, stabbing furiously at the TV remote like she’d just caught it taking a dump in her cup of tea, or something.
Five minutes of the fucking BBC Proms, and Cook’s bored. So, for the hell of it, ‘You’re mum sound. Very generous with her booze. I admire that in a person.’
‘Other people usually like her. It’s because she’s fucking nice to everyone. Bloody irritating, especially when I’m trying to remember she’s a useless cow.’
That sounds like the sort of thought process only Naomi could achieve (complicated flower, this one), so Cook doesn’t push it, relaxes into the sofa a bit more. A thought strikes him. ‘You and Emily shagged on this?’
She curls her lip at him, but other than that, she should work in politics, he gets no clue whatsoever. After two more minutes she offers, ‘Mum and Kieran from college have though. I walked in on them and nearly vomited on my shoes, if that adds to your wank fodder in any way.’
Cook casts a half glance in her direction, but can’t tell if Naomi finds that little experience horrifying or just vaguely irritating. He grins at the telly, ‘I’d bet Kieran has a decent sized cock, on reflection.’
Naomi’s eyebrows shoot skywards, and then she laughs, ‘It was ginger, I remember that much.’
‘Figures.’ Cook says, trying to nod sagely.
Gina
She must admit, she can’t remember a time when Naomi seemed quite so intense about a board game. Risk was always a bit of a faff, in her opinion, all those tiny little men on horses, and a map with boundaries so blurred she has to dig out her glasses to see them properly. However, Cook had insisted, and had set up all her army men for her, which was very dear of him.
Naomi’s current move is taking her ages to complete, Gina’s vaguely aware there are some elaborate tactics being employed, as though her daughter can win this game through sheer cunning. Unfortunately for her, Cook’s rather more scatter gun approach seems to be triumphing, in which he isn’t actually consistent in his targets, but rather peppers the board randomly with reinforcements, and attacks her daughter with a poorly hidden glee. His fist pump every time he removes one of Naomi’s soldiers is rather endearing.
Gina isn’t sure of the rules, and the instruction manual is long since lost in the clutter of life, but luckily Cook seems to have an excellent understanding of the rules, and so Gina approves each one he comes out with. Even the ones that seem to disadvantage Naomi hugely, because the look on her daughters face is rather funny, truth be told.
When a rule change means Naomi loses Asia, she bangs her fist on the table so hard all the soldiers fall over, before launching into a four letter tirade against Cook, until Cook is laughing so hard he’s gasping for breath, so hard Gina’s concerned he’s about to faint from lack of oxygen, and everything is rather lovely, really.
Naomi
What a dick. Really though. A complete tool. He’s leaving now, a stuffing sandwich in each pocket, draining the last of their alcohol reserves in the kitchen with her Mum. Who, incidentally, is a prick as well. By the end of it Naomi had strongly suspected Gina was encouraging Cook to cheat, which removes the whole point of the whole fucking game, reduces the fucking thing to a sham.
Naomi huffily reaches up to the coat stand to try and hurry Cook’s departure along, but catches herself when she realises he didn’t have one. And then he is at her elbow, before attempting to suffocate her against the wall. Great, just great. Death by pillock.
After a moment, Naomi recognises the strangulation isn’t an attempt on her life, but a hug, the type she seen rewarded to JJ now and then. In an even greater panic, she tries patting him once on the back, hoping it’ll get her released. When Cook does put her down, Naomi notices her mum has appeared in the door, is watching the scene like it’s some heart-warming nativity play, rather than near assault. Cook is patting down her hair, and if this isn’t the fucking weirdest Boxing Day she’ll ever have, Naomi doesn’t want to know how it could be stranger.
‘Naomi. It’s been a pleasure. You’re mum’s a legend, and you’re right fucking decent for inviting me round in the first place, even though you think I’m a cock.’
Naomi scratches awkwardly at the back of her neck, wrong footed suddenly. ‘Yeah, right, well, you’re welcome. You aren’t that irritating I suppose, though you fucking cheat at board games.’
Cook is nodding happily at the accusation, even her Mum is smiling along, and suddenly Naomi can’t help grinning briefly at him, before sobering quickly. ‘Don’t expect regular invites round though. Once a year I can deal with, just about.
‘Oh, unlucky Nai-kins,’ Cook announces, fishing a sandwich out of his pocket, ‘I’ll be over often. Me and your mum have a business arrangement.’
Naomi blinks, before turning to her mum. ‘What?’
‘Yes, dear, you see..’ and suddenly her mum is blathering on about her difficulties in getting a regular supplier of ‘marijuana, for my shoulder’, and how Cook helpfully volunteered his services, as Cook is chipping in with his promises that it’ll be ‘at a discount rate Mrs C, seeing as you’re a classy lady’, all the while eating his sandwich with a downright smug look on his face.
At the end of it, Naomi’s run out of words, settles for an eye-roll that doesn’t do the occasion justice, but that’s just it about Cook, he wears you down eventually.
‘You are a twat, Cook. Never forget. But, Merry Christmas, dickhead.’
Cook’s grabbing her again, and this time presses a kiss to her cheek. ‘Pass that on to Emily,’ he grins, flicking his tongue once at her, ‘In a manner of speaking.’
He’s gone before she can kick him.