I suppose it's a phase that many families go through, despite the well intended advice from those who've been through it and not so welcome advice from many who haven't. Unfortunately we were one family who suffered the hormone rages that seemed to last forever. Growing up seems to move on so swiftly in younger years - babies aren't babies for long, toddlers only toddle for a brief span of time, kids get to school and learn bad habits and bad language that you strenuously deny came from you. Then come the two or three years that they question everything. It's all part of growing up and starting to form their own unique personality.
Olivia, our only daughter, was no different. From day zero to age one she was cooed at, from two to five she had a perpetual smile, except for raging tantrums slap in the middle of large stores, a burst of tears every time we got through the sweet-laden shelves at the supermarket checkout and filling most of her clothes and the car child seat with sick after a day out at a well known British theme park. I remember the car stank for many days afterwards. The smiles still held from five till ten, except the times she KNEW she was right and grown-ups didn't realise the trauma she suffered while being persuaded that green vegetables were good for you and that cola was NOT the only drink that little girls were supposed to consume. From ten to twelve, apart from frequent visits to the dentist caused by the sugary drink she worshipped, life wasn't too bad. We compromised, because life became so much easier if you could negotiate a resolution.
Then at precisely 00.01 hours on Thursday 15 October, 1992, the day of her thirteenth birthday, everything changed. Her beautiful, usually smiling face became creased with frowns. Her manners vanished completely, she didn't speak but growled, she challenged everything we and her school teachers told her. She decided she was right and that everyone else was just plain stupid, she bullied, smoked, stayed out late, drank whatever alcohol was available. It was fun to puke, it meant that you'd had a good time and it was always OK to unfasten one button too many ... why did the good Lord give girls tits if they were to be hidden?
***
"I think we badly need a holiday,' I suggested to Linda, my once loving wife. We hadn't made love, in the strictest sense of the word, for well over a year. We'd had sex on my birthday four months before.
"I think we do, if only to save our relationship," said Linda, and she was right.
Being school summer holiday break we'd had more than enough of Olivia, either sulking, disobeying or making her brother's life hell. Given also that financing hobbies, treats, clothes, pocket money etc., etc., meant we were both working; tired and stressed we both looked forward to a budget break ASAP.
The drive to Dover was anticipation, the crossing to Calais was discovery but the long journey through France, avoiding expensive toll roads, was an enduring nightmare. The French holiday in August and even if the end of the world was imminent they'd still holiday in August. Even through picturesque villages there was a spirit of festival ... festival of flowers, festival of food, of beer, of fish, of dance, of cheese, fireman's festivals, the mayor's festival and then of course the festival of marriage where all the village turns out. Even when we reached the French equivalent of civilisation we had to wait an hour while a cycle race passed through and barriers were removed.
We argued, by god we argued. We argued after I'd taken a right fork instead of left - we'd driven 20 miles before we realised we were heading in the wrong direction. When we finally reached our destination we were tired, hot and hungry.
Thankfully, Olivia and an older girl she befriended managed to spend hours playing pool. Looking back, that became a quiet holiday for us - we hardly saw her. That was when she was 16, the girl she befriended maybe 19 or 20, acting even a couple of years older than that. I remember we went to a BBQ organised by the camping site - unlimited booze, you just topped up your plastic cup.
"Daddy," Olivia said, "Please, please, please can we go to the BBQ?" quite as soon as she got to know about it. Included in the request was a hug and a smile, something in short supply at home.
"Yes, please, can we?" from Luke, her brother, without the hug.
I had no option. Linda, my wife, would enjoy the food, I would enjoy the unlimited beer and the kids, hopefully, would behave themselves. However, the Dutch girl who'd befriended Olivia couldn't afford the BBQ and her self-styled hippie parents (my opinion) weren't going to tip up the cash.
"Please, please, daddy, can Anouk come?" By the age of 16 Olivia knew perfectly how and when to ask. "Her parents can't afford." Notice the indirect question, not asking me to pay but expecting me to offer. I looked at Linda and she just shrugged her shoulders. My decision again.
"How did you and Anouk become friends?" I asked Olivia.
"Oh I was bored so I went the room where the pool tables are. I met her there."
"I didn't know you played pool."
"I've played loads of times at youth club," Olivia replied, "And I'm quite good at it." Ah, that's why the sudden switch of clothes, it now made sense. "And Anouk is good too."
"OK," I answered, "I'll get another ticket." I wasn't going to give either girl the money, but at least the Dutch girl had kept Olivia out of my way.
"Are you playing pool this afternoon?" I asked Olivia.
"Yes, I expect so." I knew they'd been drinking too, Anouk possibly buying it as she was of legal age.
Nothing more was said until I decided to have a walk round to the bar area. Anouk buying drinks? No, one of the guys watching the game passed two glasses of lager to them. Did I say 'watching the game?' Both girls took their drinks, drank a good mouthful and placed the glasses nearby. Bending to take her shot, I could see why Anouk had a captive audience: the guys in front got an eyeful of cleavage and the guys behind were gazing at a pair of flawless long legs, her skirt short enough to offer a glimpse of her knickers too.
Minutes later I too was sat, local beer in hand, watching Anouk's talent ... butt cheeks hardly concealing a tiny strip of knicker gusset. The girls had it all worked out; all they had to do was wear short skirts and low tops and their games of pool were free. The drinks, I found out a few minutes later, were from accepting challenges from men, young and old, to play against one of them. Same tit view but much closer and from where I sat I could see Anouk's white and pale blue polkadot knickers - and, I was sure, a few glimpses of labia majora.
Then it was Olivia's turn to entertain a man, I'd say, who was a similar age to me. Of course, he paid for the game. Anouk came over to me.
"Hallo, Jack. You like this game?"
"I enjoyed watching you play."
"You want to play with me?"
I smiled at the intended bad English. "I'd love to play with you."
Anouk leaned forward just enough, "This is good, but I get thirsty."
"Thirsty for what?" I answered, making sure she knew I'd looked down the tunnel of her cleavage. Two could play this tantalising game, "And your blue polkadot knickers are lovely."
I doubt that she blushed, but if she did it wasn't noticeable. "Mmmm, are you game to find out?" She leaned a little further and I'd swear the elderly guy across the room nearly had a heart attack. I could smell her cheap perfume.
"Vodka and coke," she whispered, "Is my special favourite." How much sex can you get into a whisper? In Anouk's case the sexuality just oozed into any conversation.
I bought Anouk's special favourite from the bar and placed the 10 franc coin in the pool table's coin slot. I broke off, not potting any ball but leaving one directly over a pocket.
Anouk easily potted it but missed another easy chance. Several shots later I amazed myself that I hadn't lost my touch from my student years.
"Wow, you kept that quiet," Anouk smiled her very infectious smile, "Where did you learn to play like that."
