Cookie

by Jacqueline Wilson

  ‘GIVE US A TWIRL!’ he shouted, wafting his hands in the air.

  Mum and I stood up immediately. Even if Dad was in a very good mood like today, the slightest thing could still upset him and make him turn.

  Mum twirled around, holding up her skirt prettily, pointing her toes. I twirled too. I whizzed round too fast as I was in such a hurry to get it over. I managed to trip over my own slippered feet and nearly fell headlong.

  ‘Whoopsie!’ said Dad, catching me. ‘Dear goodness, Beauty! You’re so clumsy! I think we’d better send you back to those dancing lessons.’

  My iced bun turned a somersault inside my tummy. Dad had sent me to ballet lessons when I was six. I was the oldest in the baby class. There were some tiny girls who were only three or four. They were all much better at dancing than I was. I couldn’t do bunny hops – I simply landed with a bump on my bottom. I couldn’t skip – my arms and legs went all wonky. I couldn’t point my toes properly – they wanted to point in, not out. And I couldn’t twirl gracefully to save my life.

  I stuck it out for a year, until Miss June the dancing teacher tactfully told Mum that I didn’t seem to be enjoying my dancing classes so perhaps it might be better if I tried another hobby.

  ‘Please don’t make me do ballet again, Dad!’ I said.

  ‘Don’t you want to learn to dance like a little fairy?’ said Dad.

  ‘Fairy elephant, more like,’ I said.

  Dad chuckled and ruffled my hair. He sat down in his big leather armchair and then pulled me onto his knee. He pulled Mum onto his other knee, as if we were both his little girls.

  ‘Hey, Gerry darling, did you get the planning permission for the Water Meadows project?’ Mum asked.

  ‘I’m still working on it, but it looks very likely,’ said Dad. ‘That’s what we need, two hundred spanking new, top-of-the-range Happy Homes with river views. They’ll make our fortune, Dilly, you wait and see.’

  ‘You’ve already made our fortune,’ said Mum.

  ‘I’ve worked hard for my girls, my wife, my daughter.’ Dad paused. ‘And my ex-wives and my layabout sons.’

  Mum gave me a little frown. That meant, Don’t say a word!

  I was fascinated by the first Mrs Cookson and the second Mrs Cookson and my three half-brothers, Gerry Junior, Mark and Ryan. When we’d all met at Gerry Junior’s wedding and Grandma’s funeral I’d loved feeling part of a great big family. But Dad didn’t seem to like any of them any more. He especially didn’t like giving them any money, even though there seemed heaps to go round. The first two Mrs Cooksons had their own Happy Homes and now Gerry Junior and his new wife Julie had their own Happy Home too.

  ‘So that makes them blooming lucky,’ Dad said. ‘I didn’t have that kind of start in life. I had to make my own way.’

  Dad had started off working on a building site at sixteen. He worked his way up, until he ended up buying the building firm. Then he branched out, becoming a property developer, building lots and lots of Happy Homes. There were starter Happy Homes for young couples, standard three-bedroom Happy Homes for ordinary families, and deluxe five-bedroom, two-bathroom Happy Homes for rich families.

  We used to live in a deluxe Happy Home, but now we’d moved to an even bigger, fancier home specially built for us. We had six bedrooms, three bathrooms and a special wetroom and a hot tub outside. I even had my own en suite bathroom, dusty rose to match my pink bedroom, with silver dolphin taps.

  Dad said I was the luckiest little girl in the world. He didn’t know of another child anywhere who had her own en suite bathroom. He kept asking me why I didn’t want to invite any of my friends from Lady Mary Mountbank for a sleepover. They could sleep in one of the twin beds with the dusty-rose silk coverlets patterned with sprigs of violets, sprawl on the pink and violet velvet cushions, comb their hair at my Venetian glass dressing table and admire every inch of my en suite bathroom.

  I hadn’t invited anyone so far. It made me turn dusty rose in the face to admit it, but I didn’t really have any proper friends. I did wonder if I dared ask Rhona to tea, but that would annoy Skye and make her meaner to me than ever. Maybe Rhona wouldn’t come anyway.

  I wasn’t even sure I wanted her to come myself. I’d probably feel dreadfully shy and not know what to say to her. What would we play for all those hours before bedtime? I liked reading when I was by myself but you couldn’t really read together. I liked painting but I had to do it in the kitchen with newspaper spread everywhere, long before Dad came home. I wasn’t supposed to do any painting whatsoever in case I spilled paint on the carpets.

  Dad didn’t even allow felt-tip pens in case I got marks on the cream sofas. I was always very careful but Rhona was a giggly girl who never sat still. What if she flung her arm out when she was painting and accidentally spattered the wallpaper? If Dad saw he’d get into a rage whether Rhona was here or not.

  I felt sick at the thought of Dad ranting in front of Rhona. I often cried because he scared me so. Perhaps he’d make Rhona cry too. Then she’d tell everyone at school. She’d definitely tell Skye because she was her best friend.

  I kept pretending to Dad that I’d simply forgotten to ask anyone for a sleepover. He seemed to have forgotten himself for the last few weeks . . . forgotten until this very moment!

  ‘You still haven’t had any of your friends to stay, Beauty,’ said Dad, jogging me on his knee as if I was a little baby.

  My heart started thudding. I nibbled my lip anxiously.

  ‘Don’t do that,’ said Dad, lightly tapping my mouth. He frowned at my teeth. ‘They’re sticking out more, Beauty. We’re definitely going to have to get you fitted out with braces.’

  ‘I don’t want braces,’ I mumbled.

  ‘You don’t want to end up looking like Bugs Bunny, do you?’ said Dad, pulling a silly rabbit face, making his own teeth protrude.

  ‘The dentist said to wait a year or so, darling,’ Mum said. ‘He’s not even sure Beauty really needs a brace.’

  ‘Nonsense! She needs perfect choppers, all girls do,’ said Dad. ‘Anyway, who’s your best friend at school, Beauty?’

  ‘I like Rhona, but she’s Skye’s friend, not really mine,’ I said.

  ‘Can’t you all be friends?’ said Dad. ‘Invite them both over. What about this Saturday?’

  I breathed out thankfully.

  ‘I can’t this Saturday, Dad. That’s when Rhona’s having her birthday party,’ I said.

  ‘And you’re going to this party?’

  ‘Well, she’s given me an invitation.’

  ‘Lovely. Well, we’d better get cracking organizing a party for your birthday!’

  I started nibbling my lip again.

  ‘Stop it!’ said Dad. ‘Yes, we’ll throw a really big bumper party for your birthday for every girl in your class, all your new Lady Mary Mountbank friends.’

  ‘Do I really have to have a party, Dad?’ I said desperately.

  ‘I’m not sure about a lot of over-excited children running round the house,’ Mum said quickly. She knew how Dad fussed so about the carpet and the cream sofas.

  ‘We won’t have them running riot here,’ said Dad. ‘We’ll take them out somewhere swish. Leave it to me, I’ll work on it. I want my Beauty to have a really fantastic birthday.’

  ‘It’s ever so kind of you, Dad,’ I gabbled, though my heart was sinking.

  I just had to hope he might somehow forget about it. I wasn’t sure many of the girls in my class would come, especially not Skye or Emily or

  Arabella. Or if they did, they’d all call me names the way they did in class.

  ‘What does my best girl want for her birthday present, eh?’ said Dad.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said.

  ‘Well, think!’ said Dad. He tapped my forehead. ‘What’s going on inside that little noddle of yours, eh? I bet you’ve got some idea of what you’d really really like for a present.’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘Ah! I thought so,’ said Dad. ‘Come on,
what is it?’

  Mum leaned forward, looking tense. Dad shifted his knee, tipping her off his lap.

  ‘You go and make a start on tea, Dilly, I’m starving. Whack a steak under the grill. Even you can manage that.’

  I tried to get up too but Dad hung onto me.

  ‘No, no, you stay and keep your old dad company, little Beauty. I want to get to the bottom of your birthday wishes. What are you pondering? I can tell you’ve set your heart on something.’

  I wriggled, wondering whether I dared ask.

  ‘Come on, sweetie. No need to be shy of your old dad. What is it, eh? Have you got your eye on some outrageously expensive outfit? It’s OK, baby, I’m used to your mum. I’ll happily fork out for the junior designer doodahs of your choice – with a dinky little handbag and maybe your first pair of shoes with tiny heels, yes?’

  ‘Well, actually, Dad, I wasn’t really thinking about clothes.’

  ‘Aye aye! Something more expensive, eh? It’s OK, darling, the business is doing well. You heard me tell your mum I’m on the brink of the biggest deal yet. Do you fancy your very own little laptop? Or a personal flatscreen telly for your bedroom?’

  ‘No, Dad. It’s very kind of you but I truly don’t want anything like that.’

  ‘Then what is it? Come on, spit it out. I’ll get you anything you like, my lovely.’

  ‘Then please could I have a rabbit?’ I whispered.

  ‘What?’ Dad cupped his ear.

  ‘A rabbit,’ I repeated. ‘I’d really like a white one with loppy ears, but really any kind of rabbit would be . . .’

  My voice tailed away when I saw the expression on Dad’s face.

  ‘Are you thick, Beauty?’ he said.

  ‘I – I don’t know, Dad,’ I said, not sure whether he wanted me to say yes or not. It didn’t look as if I could win whatever I said.

  ‘You come on like Miss Smarty Pants but I SAY YOU’RE THICK,’ said Dad, jabbing me in the back at every word.

  The last jab shoved me right off his lap onto the carpet. I tried to scuttle out of Dad’s way but he caught hold of me by the wrist.

  ‘Don’t, Gerry!’ Mum said, darting back into the room.

  ‘I’m not hurting her,’ said Dad. He deliberately loosened his fingers so that they were just like a fleshy pink bangle on my arm. ‘Am I hurting you, Beauty?’

  ‘No, Dad,’ I said.

  ‘And are you thick?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, Dad,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, Dad, certainly, Dad, as thick as three short planks, Dad,’ said Dad, in a horrible high squeaky imitation of my voice.

  ‘Please let her go, Gerry,’ said Mum. ‘What has she done to upset you?’

  ‘She’s only gone and ignored one of the very basic rules of this household – this particularly luxurious house, custom-made by my own best craftsmen for our benefit. I don’t think it’s asking much to want us to take care of this lovely home. I’m not what anyone would call a finicky man, now am I?’

  Mum and I didn’t dare contradict him.

  ‘I just like my house to be well looked after. No scratches on the parquet, no chips on the plaster, no dirty hairs or stains on the carpet. What causes scratches and chips and hairs and stains, mm, Beauty? Do you really not know the answer?’

  ‘Pets, Dad,’ I whispered.

  ‘Yes. Full marks. And what has my view on pets always been?’

  ‘I know I can’t have a dog or a cat, but I did think a rabbit might just be OK, because it wouldn’t be in the house, it would live in a little hutch outside.’

  ‘In a little hutch? Where, precisely? In the middle of my lawn? The rosebeds? The patio?’

  ‘No, just by a wall somewhere.’

  ‘Yes, that would really add to the classy atmosphere, rabbits in smelly hutches. What else would you like, pigeons in cages, ferrets scrabbling in a run?’

  ‘Not ferrets, Gerry, they’d eat the rabbits,’ said Mum, trying to turn it into a joke.

  ‘You shut your face, Dilly,’ said Dad. ‘No one’s asking you.’

  ‘Don’t talk to me like that, Gerry, please,’ said Mum. She tried to say it firmly but I could see she was trembling.

  ‘I’ll talk how I please in my own house,’ said Dad. ‘Now listen to me, Beauty. I don’t mind animals on a farm or in a field. I can get very fond of a winning gee-gee at a race track. I just won’t have animals in the house – or surroundings, OK? When we were peasants in mud huts back in the bad old days, folk shared their homes with a cow and a goat and a guard dog, but we’re not peasants now and this isn’t a mud hut, this is a luxury home. Get that?’

  Dad stuck his face right up close to me so that his head seemed horribly big. I could see the vein throbbing in his forehead, the blood vessels in his eyes, the hairs up his nostrils, the flecks of spit on his lips.

  He looked like a story-book ogre about to eat me up. I felt tears pricking my eyes. I knew I mustn’t cry in front of him. I always looked so ugly when I cried. My eyes screwed up, my nose ran, and my mouth went square. It always made Dad madder than ever.

  I mustn’t cry, I mustn’t cry, I mustn’t cry, I said inside my head, but the tears were already spurting down my cheeks.

  ‘Go to your room right this minute, Beauty,’ said Mum. ‘It’s naughty of you to nag at your dad for a pet, you know the rules.’

  I knew Mum wasn’t cross with me too. She was just trying to save me.

  ‘Yes, get upstairs, now!’ Dad thundered.

  I was off like a shot. I was in such a hurry I tripped on the stairs and scraped my shins, making me cry harder. I flopped onto my rose-silk bed and hugged my old rag doll PJ. I had a shelf of big fancy china dolls in Victorian costume. They had ringlets and bonnets and parasols and long flounced dresses and tiny heeled boots. They were all collector’s dolls and very beautiful but I couldn’t play with them properly. They just stood on their shelves and stared straight through me with their spooky glass eyes.

  I’d had PJ ever since I was a baby in a cot. Mum made her for me. Her eyes were crossed and her mouth was wonky and her arms and legs were uneven. I’d given her a drastic haircut when I was little which didn’t help her appearance. PJ stood for Plain Jane but I didn’t mind a bit that she wasn’t very pretty. Her mouth still smiled and she felt soft and she had her own special sweet smell. When I was little I liked to suck my thumb and nuzzle my nose against her cloth cheek. It made me feel safe.

  I tried sucking my thumb now, holding PJ close. I could hear Dad shouting downstairs. Poor Mum. She was getting the worst of it now.

  I wanted to run downstairs, turning rapidly into SuperBeauty, my arms pumping, legs bounding a mile a minute. I’d floor Dad, seize Mum in my arms, and with one mighty bound we’d soar through the open window, up up up, away from our Happy Home.

  Three

  I curled up in my bedroom, clutching PJ like a big baby. I smelled steak grilling. I didn’t like meat much – it always made me think of the poor dead animal, but my mouth watered even so.

  It didn’t look as if I was going to get any tea. I sucked my thumb mournfully and then prowled round my bedroom looking for something – anything – to eat. I opened up my lunchbox. I’d finished my egg sandwiches and carrot sticks and crisps and muesli bar and apple and orange juice. I put my head right inside the plastic box, licking the crumbs. I sucked the last drop of juice from the carton and crunched up the brown apple core.

  I found half a Polo mint at the bottom of my school bag and gobbled that down in a flash. The only other remotely edible object in the room was the little chocolate chicken Mum had given me at Easter. I liked it so much I said I was never going to eat it, I was going to keep it as an ornament.

  That was months ago. I’d not been the slightest bit tempted up till now. I reached out, undid the yellow ribbon, and pulled the little brown chicken out of its cellophane wrapping. I held it in my hand. I made it go cluck cluck cluck in an anxious fashion.

  ‘It’s OK, little chicken, no need to be scared
,’ I whispered. ‘I’m not going to eat you. I just want to look at you. Well, maybe I’ll have just one little weeny lick . . .’

  I stuck out my tongue and ran it along the chicken’s glossy back. Soft milky chocolate glided over my taste buds. My mouth watered so that I drooled all over the little chicken. Then my teeth bit. I beheaded it, chomping the chocolate and swallowing it in seconds.

  The chicken looked awful now its hollow innards were exposed. I ate the rest of it as quickly as I could, until the only sign the chocolate chicken had existed was the empty cellophane wrapper and the brown smears on my fingers.

  I wished I hadn’t eaten it now. I’d golloped it down so rapidly I hadn’t really tasted it. It had taken the edge off my hunger but now I felt sick.

  I wondered what would happen if I was sick. I’d once not made it to the bathroom in time and thrown up on the carpet and Dad had been so cross. I needed to distract myself quickly. I got out my schoolbooks and did my sums quickly, finishing all of them in twenty minutes, even though they were quite difficult problems. I started doodling in my rough book, making up my own problem.

  I had no idea how to find out the answer. I flipped over the page and started trying to draw the chocolate chicken from memory. I coloured it in with my crayons, feeling guiltier than ever. I did it very carefully, not going over my lines, even leaving little white spaces in the brown to give the illusion of glossy chocolate sheen.

  I printed: Dear Sam and Lily, This is my pet chicken, neatly at the top of the page. I didn’t give her some tea. She was MY tea!

  A little later Mum came into my room carrying a tray.

  ‘Dinner is served, madam,’ she said, making a little curtsy, pretending to be a maid. She gave me a jaunty smile but her eyes were red.

  ‘Oh, Mum,’ I said. ‘Have you been crying?’

  ‘I’m fine, I’m fine,’ she said quickly. ‘Come on, pet, eat your supper.’

  She’d made me a tuna-and-sweetcorn sandwich with a few oven chips and a little tomato salad. She’d cut the crusts off the sandwich and arranged the oven chips like a flower and cut the tomatoes into zig-zag shapes, trying to make it all look special. I wanted to wolf it down appreciatively but I still felt a bit sick. Maybe it was eating all the chocolate chicken.