“If only I had my hairpieces,” I say, studying Kelly’s face critically. “I could give you the most fantastic ponytail.”
“I look amazing!” Kelly’s goggling at herself in the mirror.
“You’ve got wonderful cheekbones,” I tell her, and dust shimmery powder onto them.
“This is so much fun!” Kelly looks at me, eyes shining. “God, I wish you lived here, Becky! We could do this every day!”
She looks so excited, I feel ridiculously touched.
“Well . . . you know,” I say. “Maybe I’ll visit again. If I patch things up with Jess.”
But even at the thought of Jess, my insides kind of crumble. The more time goes by, the more nervous I am at seeing her again.
“I wanted to do makeovers like this with Jess,” I add, a bit wistfully. “But she wasn’t interested.”
“Well, then, she’s dumb,” says Kelly.
“She’s not. She’s . . . she likes different things.”
“She’s a prickly character,” Jim puts in, walking by with some bottles of cherryade. “It’s hard to credit you two are sisters.” He dumps the bottles down and wipes his brow. “Maybe it’s in the upbringing. Jess had it pretty hard going.”
“Do you know her family, then?” I ask.
“Aye.” He nods. “Not well, but I know them. I’ve had dealings with Jess’s dad. He owns Bertram Foods. Lives over in Nailbury. Five miles away.”
Suddenly I’m burning all over with curiosity. Jess has barely told me a word about her family, despite my subtle probing.
“So . . . what are they like?” I say, as casually as I can. “Her family.”
“Like I say, she’s had a pretty hard time. Her mum died when she was fifteen. That’s a difficult age for a girl.”
“I never knew that!” Kelly’s eyes widen.
“And her dad . . .” Jim leans pensively on the counter. “He’s a good man. A fair man. Very successful. He built up Bertram Foods from nothing, through hard work. But he’s not what you’d call . . . warm. He was always as tough on Jess as he was on her brothers. Expected them to fend for themselves. I remember Jess when she started big school. She got into the high school over in Carlisle. Very academic.”
“I tried for that school,” says Kelly to me, pulling a face. “But I didn’t get in.”
“She’s a clever girl, that Jess,” says Jim admiringly. “But she had to catch three buses every morning to get there. I used to drive past on my way here—and I’ll remember the sight till I die. The early-morning mist, no one else about, and Jess standing at the bus stop with her big schoolbag. She wasn’t the big, strong lass she is now. She was a skinny little thing.”
I can’t quite find a reply. I’m thinking about how Mum and Dad used to take me to school by car every day. Even though it was only a mile away.
“They must be rich,” says Kelly, rooting around in my makeup bag. “If they own Bertram Foods. We get all our frozen pies from them,” she adds to me. “And ice cream. They’ve a huge catalog!”
“Oh, they’re well off,” says Jim. “But they’ve always been close with their money.” He rips open a cardboard box of Cup-a-Soups and starts stacking them on a shelf. “Bill Bertram used to boast about it. How all his kids worked for their pocket money.” He straightens a bundle of chicken and mushroom sachets on the shelf. “And if they couldn’t afford a school trip or whatever . . . they didn’t go. Simple as that.”
“School trips?” I can’t get my head round this. “But everyone knows parents pay for school trips!”
“Not the Bertrams. He wanted to teach them the value of money. There was a story going around one year that one of the Bertram boys was the only kid in school not to go to the pantomime. He didn’t have the money and his dad wouldn’t bail him out.” Jim resumes stacking the soups. “I don’t know if that was true. But it wouldn’t surprise me.” He gives Kelly a mock-severe look. “You don’t know you’re born, young lady. You’ve got the easy life!”
“I do chores!” retorts Kelly at once. “Look! I’m helping out here, aren’t I?”
She reaches for some chewing gum from the sweets counter and unwraps it, then turns to me. “Now I’ll do you, Becky!” She riffles in my makeup bag. “Have you got any bronzer?”
“Er . . . yes,” I say, distracted. “Somewhere.”
I’m still thinking about Jess standing at the bus stop, all little and skinny.
Jim is squashing the empty Cup-a-Soup box down flat. He turns and gives me an appraising look.
“Don’t worry, love. You’ll make up with Jess.”
“Maybe.” I try to smile.
“You’re sisters. You’re family. Family always pull through for each other.” He glances out the window. “Ay-up. They’re gathering early today.”
I follow his gaze, and see two old ladies hovering outside the shop. One of them squints at the bread display, then turns and shakes her head at the other.
“Does nobody buy bread full price?” I say.
“Not in this village,” says Jim. “Except the tourists. But we don’t get so many of those. It’s mostly climbers who want to have a go at Scully Pike—and they don’t have much call for bread. Only emergency services.”
“How d’you mean?” I say, puzzled.
“When the stupid buggers get stuck.” Jim shrugs and reaches for the half-price sign. “No matter. I’ve got to thinking of bread as a loss leader, like.”
“But it’s so yummy when it’s all fresh and new!” I say, looking along the rows of plump loaves. Suddenly I feel really sorry for them, like they haven’t been asked to dance. “I’ll buy some. Full price,” I add firmly.
“I’m about to reduce it,” Jim points out.
“I don’t care. I’ll have two big white ones and a brown one.” I march over to the bread display and pluck the loaves off the shelf.
“What are you going to do with all that bread?” says Kelly.
“Dunno. Make toast.” I hand Kelly some pound coins and she pops the three loaves into a bag, giggling.
“Jess is right, you are mad,” she says. “Shall I do your eyes now? What look do you want?”
“Customers’ll be coming in,” warns Jim. “I’m about to put the sign up.”
“I’ll just do one eye,” says Kelly, quickly reaching for a palette of eye shadows. “Then when they’ve all gone, I’ll do the other one. Close your eyes, Becky.”
She starts to brush eye shadow onto my eyelid, and I close my eyes, enjoying the brushing, tickling sensation. I’ve always adored having my makeup done.
“OK,” she says. “Now I’m doing some eyeliner. Keep still. . . .”
“Sign’s going up now,” comes Jim’s voice. There’s a pause—then I hear the familiar tinkling sound, and the bustle of people coming in.
“Er . . . don’t open your eyes yet, Becky.” Kelly sounds a bit alarmed. “I’m not sure if this has gone right. . . .”
“Let me see!”
I open them and grab my makeup mirror. One of my eyes is a wash of bright pink eye shadow, with shaky red eyeliner across the top lid. I look like I have some hideous eye disease.
“Kelly!”
“It said in Elle!” she says defensively, gesturing to a picture of a catwalk model. “Pink and red is in!”
“I look like a monster!” I can’t help bursting into giggles at my lopsided face. I have never looked so terrible in my life. I glance up to see if any of the customers have noticed and my laughter dies away.
Jess is coming into the shop along with the other reduced-price shoppers.
She looks so cold and hostile, a far cry from that skinny eleven-year-old waiting for the bus in the early morning. Her gaze runs dismissively over the magazines, the open makeup case, and all my makeup scattered over the counter. Then she turns away without speaking and begins to root through the basket of reduced cans.
The bustle of the shop has dwindled to nothing. I’m sure everyone knows exactly what’s been going on.
“Er . . . Jess,” I begin. “I came to see you this morning. I wanted to explain. . . .”
“Nothing to explain.” She turns over the cans roughly, not even looking at me. “I don’t know what you’re still doing here.”
“She’s doing makeovers with me,” Kelly says loyally. “Aren’t you, Becky?”
I dart a grateful smile at her, but my attention is still fixed on Jess.
“I stayed because I want to talk to you. To . . . to apologize. Could I take you out to supper tonight?”
“I wouldn’t have thought I was well-dressed enough to have supper with you, Becky,” Jess says tonelessly. Her face is still and set—but now I can see the hurt underneath.
“Jess—”
“And anyway, I’m busy.” Jess dumps three battered cans on the counter, together with one that has lost its paper covering altogether and is marked at 10p. “Do you know what this is, Jim?”
“Fruit cocktail, I think.” He frowns. “But it could be carrots . . .”
“OK. I’ll take it.” She plonks some coins on the counter and fishes a crumpled paper carrier out of her pocket. “I don’t need a bag. Thanks.”
“Another night, then!” I say desperately. “Or lunch . . .”
“Becky, leave me alone.”
She strides out of the shop and I just sit there, my face tingling as though I’ve been slapped. Gradually the hush turns into whispers, which grow into full-blown chatter. I’m aware of people’s prying eyes as they come up to the counter to pay, but I’m too defeated to care.
“Are you OK, Becky?” Kelly says, touching my shoulder tentatively.
“I’ve blown it.” I drop my arms in a hopeless gesture. “You saw her.”
“She always was a stubborn little cuss.” Jim shakes his head. “Even when she was a kid. She’s her own worst enemy, that Jess. Hard on herself and hard on the rest of the world too.” He pauses, cleaning some dirt off his Stanley knife. “She could do with a sister like you, Becky.”
“Well, too bad,” Kelly says robustly. “You don’t need her! Just forget she’s your sister. Pretend she doesn’t exist!”
“Not as simple as that, though, is it?” says Jim. “Not with family. You can’t walk away so easy.”
“I don’t know.” I give a dispirited shrug. “Maybe we can. I mean, we’ve gone twenty-seven years without knowing each other. . . .”
“And you want to make it another twenty-seven?” Jim looks at me, suddenly stern. “Here’s the two of you. Neither of you has a sister. You could be good friends to one another.”
“It’s not my fault. . . .” I begin defensively, then tail off as I remember my little speech last night. “Well, it’s not all my fault. . . .”
“Didn’t say it was,” says Jim. He serves another two customers, then turns to me. “I’ve an idea. I know what Jess is doing tonight. In fact, I’ll be there too.”
“Really?”
“Aye. Local environmental protest meeting. Everyone’ll be there.” His eyes twinkle. “Why not come along?”
FAX MESSAGE
TO: LUKE BRANDON
APHRODITE TEMPLE HOTEL
CYPRUS
FROM: SUSAN CLEATH–STUART
6 JUNE 2003
URGENT—EMERGENCY
Luke
Becky isn’t at the flat. No one has seen her anywhere. I still can’t get through on her phone.
I’m really getting worried.
Suze
Nineteen
OK. This is my chance to impress Jess. This is my chance to show her I’m not shallow and spoiled. I must not fuck this one up.
The first crucial thing is my outfit. With a frown I survey all my clothes, which I’ve strewn over the bed in the B&B room. What is the perfect environmental protest group meeting outfit? Not the leather trousers . . . not the glittery top . . . My eyes suddenly alight on a pair of combat trousers, and I pluck them from the pile.
Excellent. They’re pink, but I can’t help that. And . . . yes. I’ll team them with a T-shirt with a slogan. Genius!
I haul out a T-shirt that has the word HOT on it and goes really well with the combats. It’s not very protest-y, though, is it? I think for a minute, then get a red pen out of my bag and carefully add the word BAN. BAN HOT doesn’t exactly make sense . . . but it’s the thought that counts, surely. Plus I won’t wear any makeup, except a bit of eyeliner and some mascara and a translucent lip gloss.
I put it all on, and tie my hair into plaits, then admire myself in the mirror. I actually look pretty militant! I raise my hand experimentally in a power salute, and shake my fist at the mirror.
“Up with the workers,” I say in a deep voice. “Brothers unite.”
God, yes. I think I could be really good at this!
The protest meeting is being held in the village hall, and as I arrive I see people milling about, and posters up everywhere, with slogans like DON’T SPOIL OUR COUNTRYSIDE. I head to a table with cups of coffee and biscuits on it.
“Cup of coffee, love?” says an elderly man in a waxed jacket.
“Thanks,” I say. “Er, I mean . . . thanks, brother. Right on.” I give him the power salute. “Up the strike!”
The man looks a bit confused, and I suddenly remember they’re not striking. I keep getting this mixed up with Billy Elliot. But it’s the same thing, isn’t it? Solidarity and fighting together for a good cause. I wander into the center of the hall, holding my cup, and catch the eye of a youngish guy with spiky red hair and a denim jacket covered in badges.
“Welcome!” he says, breaking away from the group he’s in and extending his hand. “I’m Robin. I haven’t seen you at the group before.”
“I’m Becky. Actually, I’m just a visitor. But Jim said it would be OK to come. . . .”
“Of course!” says Robin, shaking my hand with enthusiasm. “Everyone’s welcome. It doesn’t matter whether you’re a resident or a visitor . . . the issues are the same. Awareness is as important as anything else.”
“Absolutely!” I take a sip of coffee and notice the bundle of leaflets he’s holding. “I could take some of those back to London with me and give them out, if you like. Spread the word.”
“That would be great!” Robin’s face creases into a smile. “That’s the kind of proactive attitude we need more of! What kind of environmental issues are you into particularly?”
Think. Environmental issues. “Um . . .” I take a sip of coffee. “All sorts, really! Trees . . . and er . . . hedgehogs . . .”
“Hedgehogs?” Robin looks puzzled.
Damn. That only came out because I was thinking that his hair looks just like a hedgehog’s.
“When they get squashed by cars,” I improvise. “It’s a real danger in today’s society.”
“I’m sure you’re right.” Robin frowns thoughtfully. “So, are you in an action group specifically looking at the plight of hedgehogs?”
Right. Change the subject, Becky.
“Yes,” I hear myself saying. “I am. It’s called . . . Prickle.”
“Prickle!” He smiles. “Great name!”
“Yes,” I say confidently. “It stands for Protect . . . Really . . . Innocent . . . er . . .”
OK. Maybe I should have chosen a word with an H in it.
“Creatures . . .” I’m floundering. “. . . of all Kinds . . . including hedgehogs . . .”
I break off in relief as I see Jim approaching, together with a thin, wiry woman dressed in jeans and a plaid shirt. This must be Jim’s wife!
“Greetings, Jim,” says Robin with a friendly smile. “Glad you could make it.”
“Hi, Jim!” I say, and turn to the woman with him. “You must be Elizabeth.”
“And you must be the famous Becky!” She clasps my hand. “Our Kelly can’t talk about anything but you.”
“Kelly’s really sweet! We had such fun today doing makeovers . . .” I suddenly catch Jim’s frown. “And .
. . er . . . revisions for her exams,” I hastily add. “Lots of algebra and French vocab.”
“Is Jess here?” Jim asks, looking around the room.
“I don’t know,” I say, feeling the usual apprehension at the mention of her name. “I haven’t spotted her yet.”
“It’s a shame.” Elizabeth clicks her tongue. “Jim’s told me all about it. Two sisters, not speaking to each other. And you’re so young! You’ve got your whole lives ahead to be friends, you know. A sister is a blessing!”
“They’ll make up,” Jim says easily. “Ah. Here she is!”
I swivel round and sure enough, there’s Jess, striding toward us, looking totally gobsmacked to see me.
“What’s she doing here?” she says to Jim.
“This is a new member of our group, Jess,” says Robin, coming forward with a smile. “Meet Becky.”
“Hi, Jess!” I say with a nervous smile. “I thought I’d get into the environment!”
“Becky’s special interest is hedgehogs,” adds Robin.
“What?” Jess takes a few seconds to absorb this news, then starts to shake her head. “No. No. She’s not a member of the group. And she’s not coming to the meeting. She has to go. Now!”
“Do you two know each other?” asks Robin, trying to put all this together. Jess looks away.
“We’re sisters,” I explain.
“They don’t get on,” says Jim, in a stage whisper.
“Now, Jess,” says Robin earnestly. “You know our group ethos. We put our personal differences aside at the door. Everyone’s welcome. Everyone’s a friend!” He smiles at me. “Becky’s already volunteered for some outreach work!”
“No!” Jess clasps her head. “You don’t understand what she’s like—”
“Come on, Becky,” says Robin, ignoring Jess. “I’ll find you a chair.”
Gradually the chatter abates and everyone sits down on chairs arranged in the shape of a horseshoe. As I look around the row of faces I spot Edie and Lorna, and several more people I recognize as customers from Jim’s shop.
“Welcome, everyone,” says Robin, taking up a position in the center of the horseshoe. “Before we start, I have a few announcements. Tomorrow, as you know, is the sponsored endurance hike up Scully Pike. Can we have numbers, please?”
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