Shine. Kate Maryon

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СКАЧАТЬ First we pile the sofa high with cushions and duvets and put out loads of snacks in tiny bowls. Then we get all dressed up in two of Mum’s glittery dresses and put on our sparkly high-heeled ruby slippers that we bought for each other last Christmas. We put on loads of Mum’s make-up, tie up our hair and make two delicious Shirley Temple cocktails.

      “Your mum’s so cool, Tiff,” says Chelsea. “Mine would go crazy if I even went anywhere near her make-up. If I used it, I think she’d just totally explode. And she’d never leave me in the house alone. My parents still think I’m about five years old, or something, and they act like they’re at least a hundred.”

      “Mum likes me using her stuff,” I say. “We share everything. She trusts me and I trust her.” My voice wobbles a bit when I hear myself talking to Chels about trust. Because I think that my mum does trust me, but I’m not so sure that I completely trust her. “Come on,” I say, changing the subject, “let’s watch the movie.”

      Chelsea and I love all the old-fashioned films. Things like the original Parent Trap and Whistle Down the Wind and Pollyanna with Hayley Mills in them. They’re so much better than new ones. The Wizard of Oz is our all-time favourite, with Judy Garland playing Dorothy.

      Breakfast at Tiffany’s is my mum’s favourite and it’s where she got my name from. Tiffany’s is this amazing, expensive jewellery shop in New York, and there’s one in London too, and it was the first place Mum wanted to go to when she ran away from Sark.

      Chels and I know all the words from all the movies off by heart because we’ve watched them so many times. And sometimes we even turn the sound right down and do the voice bits ourselves.

      “Toto,” I say to Chelsea, messing about in my best American accent, handing her some Pringles, “I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas any more.”

      “I know,” says Chels, giggling, “we must be over the rainbow.”

      And then we just get the giggles and snorts big-time and turn off all the lights and snuggle down with Chardonnay to watch.

      “What now?” asks Chels when the film has finished and we’re giving each other a proper face-mask pamper-treatment.

      “How about a horror movie?” I say. “Something really spoooookey. Let’s see what’s on.” I start surfing through the channels. There’s loads of boring stuff on and just as we are about to give up I see Mikey’s face splashed all over Crimewatch. My heart drops into my tummy and starts churning around like a washing machine on full spin. This isn’t the kind of horror thing I was looking for.

      “Er, Tiff,” says Chelsea. “Isn’t that your mum’s friend? And look, there’s that big red sports car that you and your mum had last week.”

      I realise that I’m just sitting there staring at the screen. My mouth has turned into the Sahara Desert and my voice has done a runner. I stare and stare at Mikey’s face on the TV. It’s one of those police photos that makes him look all scary, like a murderer. I don’t want to watch, but my hands can’t make the remote work.

      “Looks like he’s in big trouble,” says Chels, edging closer to the screen.

      My chest has heavy birds flapping inside, and someone’s fist is in my tummy, squeezing it tight. I don’t really know what’s happening, but I know that something is very, very, very wrong. My hands are shaking and I spill lemonade all over the place while I make us more drinks.

      The doorbell rings. I open it and Chelsea’s dad is standing there with a boiling-mad face.

      “Where’s your mum, Tiff?” he gruffs.

      I can’t speak.

      “Grab your things, Chels,” he says, “you’re coming home with me.”

      “But I’m sleeping over, Dad,” she argues, still covered in my mum’s expensive face cream.

      “It’s not up for discussion, Chelsea,” he says. “You’re coming home now and that’s that. And you,” he says, staring goggle-eyed at me, “you tell your mum it’s not right to leave under-fourteens on their own in the house. Tell her it’s downright dangerous, got it?”

      I nod, trying to keep control of my bottom lip. It’s gone all stupid and keeps twitching and trembling. Chelsea takes off Mum’s dress, pulls on her jeans and shoves her ruby slippers and sleepover stuff in her bag.

      “You gonna be OK, Tiff?” she asks, squeezing my hand.

      I squeeze her hand back and paint on a smile, then the door slams and I’m left alone with Chardonnay, wondering. My whole body follows my lip and turns to jelly. I’m freezing and shaking. I close the curtains and double-lock the door. Then I switch channels to a comedy thing, hide under the duvet with Chardonnay, and wait.

       Chapter 4

       you’re such a little worry guts…

      “Quick, Tiff!” Mum calls out, slamming the front door, “We’re going on that holiday. Now! Get your bits together, babe, you know: sun cream, bikini, i Pod, that new book you bought.”

      She stumbles into the flat and trips over Chardonnay, who’s wagging her tail and panting like crazy, pleased to see Mum. I’m pleased to see her too, and my jelly body melts a bit and calms down. I don’t feel so scared now she’s home.

      “I saw Mikey,” I say. “I saw Mikey on the telly. His face was all over Crimewatch and Chelsea saw everything and then her dad came and got all cross that you weren’t here and took her home.”

      “What you talking about, Tiff?” she says, pulling our wheelie bags from the cupboard in the hall. “Mikey’s not on telly, he’s been with me, babe. You must’ve got it wrong.”

      “But Mum,” I persist, rescuing Chardonnay from her spiky heels, “I saw him, and there was a picture of that red car we had, and I need you to tell me what’s going on.” The washing machine starts up in my tummy again and the birds begin flapping in my brain.

      “Oh, Tiff, lighten up,” she says, in a harsh voice. “You’re such a little worry guts. Trust me, baby, trust me.”

      I stare cold eyes at her.

      “You do trust me, Tiff, don’t you? I couldn’t bear it if you didn’t.”

      And then her eyes start welling up, and I can’t make her cry so I put a cheerful face on to calm her down, but my worries keep on nibbling at my brain.

      “Why are we going now?” I ask. “I thought we were going to look at the brochures tomorrow and choose somewhere together. And there’s a new rule at school and we have to get special permission to go away during term-time. We have to wait till Monday, Mum. Please? And let them know properly.”

      “Worry guts,” Mum teases, rushing about the place with her bikini in her hand. “We’re going on holiday now because Mikey managed to get a special deal. Don’t you worry your pretty little head about boring old school, I’ve got it all under control. Come СКАЧАТЬ