This Way to Paradise

by Cathy Hopkins

  Upstairs, I could hear Kate and Aunt Sarah rowing about something. She’d probably smelled the smoke too and unlike Dylan wasn’t blaming me. Oh happy families, I thought as I got my phone out and texted Erin.

  Hey. M in luv. India J XX

  A text came straight back.

  Who? Wen? Where? How?

  I was about to text again when Kate burst into the kitchen. ‘Christ,’ she sighed and looked at her watch. ‘Only two hours before Monster Mother goes – then peace.’ She eyed the second piece of toast, jam and peanut butter that was lying on my plate ready to be eaten, picked it up and took a bite.

  ‘Um . . . Kate,’ I said. ‘That boy who came to the door before . . .’

  ‘What boy?’

  ‘Joe. I think his name’s Joe. He dropped an envelope off for your mum.’

  Kate shrugged.‘Oh Joe Donahue. Yeah. What about him?’

  ‘Who is he?’

  Kate stopped chewing, sat down opposite and scrutinised me with narrow eyes. ‘Do you fancy him?’

  I felt myself redden. ‘Er . . . maybe. I don’t really know him.’

  ‘Oh God,’ said Kate, then she shook her head. ‘Don’t. Not Joe. He’s in the same year as me at school. Stay away from him.’

  ‘Why? He looked nice.’

  ‘Don’t all the bad boys?’

  ‘Bad boy? Why?’

  Kate tapped the side of her nose. ‘Just trust me on this,’ she said. ‘And I know it may sound rich coming from me, seeing as I have had my fair share of bad-boy boyfriends but, believe me, Joe Donahue is in a league of his own and no way do I want to see you hurt.’

  I was about to ask her more, but Mum came back in with more groceries and I didn’t want her getting into it and then later it becoming a topic of conversation for the whole family. I’ll corner Kate later, I thought, and find out more. I was intrigued. He hadn’t seemed like bad news at the door earlier. At first I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw that he was standing there on Aunt Sarah’s front steps, looking even more handsome than before with his hair damp and slightly curled from the rain. I think my jaw must have fallen open and he looked amused when he saw that it was me.

  He’d glanced up at the house. ‘Can you give this to Sarah . . . that is Mrs Rosen.’

  ‘Sure. She’s my aunt,’ I said.

  ‘Ah,’ he said and a twinkle appeared in his eyes. ‘And part of the family that hasn’t got head lice?’

  ‘The very same,’ I said in a stupidly pompous manner for which I immediately cursed myself. ‘I . . . I picked up the wrong bottle by mistake.’

  ‘Easily done,’ he said and gave me a killer-watt smile.

  I scanned my brain for something witty and brilliant to say back but all that came out was, ‘Yumph.’

  He nodded as if I’d said something sensible. ‘Er yeah. OK. Later then,’ he said and for a few seconds our eyes met and my stomach did the fluttery butterfly thing again. There was a connection and I was sure he’d felt it too.

  He turned back into the rain, put his umbrella up, walked down the path, out the gate and disappeared. I wanted to yell after him – later when exactly? Where are you going on your trip? How long for? Who with? When are you back? Do you have a girlfriend? Do you want one?

  But of course, I didn’t.

  ‘Yeah, later,’ I said into the rain.

  As soon as Aunt Sarah’s taxi had gone, Kate started making her own plans to leave, but I cornered her in the hall before she escaped.

  ‘See yus,’ she said as she donned her Prada glasses, shoved a twenty pound note into the back pocket of her jeans and headed for the front door.

  ‘I . . . but . . . just before you go, I wanted to ask you more about Joe,’ I blustered.

  She rolled her eyes up to the ceiling. ‘I told you, he’s bad news. There’s a trail of broken hearts after that boy and, seeing as I am your older responsible cousin, I’m going to make sure that yours isn’t one of them.’

  Personally I didn’t think that ‘Kate’ and ‘responsible’ were two words that went together but I wasn’t going to spoil her moment of feeling protective towards me.

  ‘Well, he’s going on a trip,’ I said. ‘So not much chance of anything happening.’

  Kate nodded. ‘He’s going to Greece.’

  ‘What? With Aunt Sarah?’

  ‘Yes. No. At least, he’s not travelling with her. He’s going out soon though, I think. Not sure when.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘His mum’s one of my mum’s oldest friends. Her name’s Charlotte, but we call her Lottie. They go back years. She helped Mum set up the centre and she runs workshops over there.’

  ‘Really. What kind?’

  ‘Get bendy, stick your leg behind your left ear and get enlightened type tosh, you know – yoga. And she does boreyourself-into-oblivion nutrition too, I think. Lentils and brown rice. To be avoided at all costs.’

  I burst out laughing. ‘Not quite how they describe it in the brochure,’ I said.

  The centre in Greece, called Cloud Nine, was Aunt Sarah’s latest business venture. Unlike my mum, who used her inheritance to travel the world, Aunt Sarah had invested hers. First she had a stall on Portobello Road selling jewellery that she’d bought in India and Thailand. With the proceeds from that, she bought a small shop and then another and then another, until she had four shops selling jewellery and artefacts from all over the world. Next, she invested in property and bought the house in Holland Park, plus a couple of flats in North London that she rented out. A few years ago, she sold the flats, bought land in Greece and set up a centre for holistic holidays. It offers all sorts of self-help and creative workshops, and people go there to do writing, art, meditation, dance, yoga – a variety of classes from the weird to the wonderful.

  Kate laughed too. ‘Yeah. Mum ought to ask me to do the blurb for her. I’d tell the truth about what goes on there. Not my idea of fun, I can tell you that much.’

  ‘So why’s Joe going then? What’s he going to do there?’

  Kate shrugged. ‘Dunno. Not to do the classes. I think I heard Mum say something about getting him a job out there for the summer. In the town not the centre. But he’s probably going mainly so that Lottie can keep an eye on him. Which means the big bad wolf is out of the way for the summer and you are safe.’

  Yeah, maybe, I thought as Kate made her exit, but he’d be back in time for school in September. And the good news was that I’d be going to the same school as him and Kate. Plus my aunt knew his mum. Chances are there would be plenty of opportunity to accidentally bump into him. Later, he’d said. Yeah. I’d make sure that was a definite.

  Chapter 4

  Change of Plan?

  Cinnamongirl:

  Luv it luv it luv it here. It’s fabbie dabbie doobie, Erin. London is so cosmopolitan. Like the whole world is here. All nations. All shapes. All sizes. I’ve never felt happier and I’ve got weeks more of it before starting school. I’ve spent the last few days exploring West London and, the more I’ve seen, the more I feel like I’ve died and gone to heaven. High Street Kensington, the posh designer shops in Sloane Street in Knightsbridge, (they even smell expensive – most of them burn the most divine scented candles all day), Portobello Road market which sells everything. You’d love it. Miss U. Wish you were here. India Jane. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

  Irishbrat4eva:

  SHUT UP. I hate you. Am too jealous to communicate with you any more. Our friendship is over.

  Cinnamongirl:

  Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo. Please be my friend again.

  Irishbrat4eva:

  No. I don’t like you any more. I am rinsing you from my life from this moment on. You are far too happy and I am so totally depressed.

  Cinnamongirl:

  Pleeeeeeeeease still be my friend. I do miss you, honest.

  Irishbrat4eva:

  I don’t believe you. You’ve been away for less than a week and already say you have never been happier in your whole life. Clearly I am
redundant. You have moved on and not taken me with you. I am going to sulk for the rest of eternity.

  OK. Bored with that.

  PS. What happened to that boy you were in love with for a nano second? The one whose pic you e-mailed over?

  Cinnamongirl:

  Going to Greece for the summer.

  Irishbrat4eva:

  Ah. Fear not. There will be others. Although he did look cute. Can’t wait to come over. Gotta go. Busby’s, is calling. Like, see what I mean. You hang out in designer shops in Knightsbridge that smell of expensive perfume. I have to stack shelves in Busby’s which smells of old cabbage. Such is my lot in life. BUT NOT FOR LONG!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  Erin had got a job for a month in Busby’s, which was the local supermarket near where we used to live. She hated it, but it was a way to earn some extra dosh to come over to London in August. It made me think that maybe I should get a part-time job too and earn some money so that I could go and visit her at half-term or Christmas. I knew that Mum and Dad couldn’t afford to give me any cash as the only topic of conversation over meals since we had arrived in London was how broke they were and what they were going to do for work. It was going to be a whole new chapter for both of them. Not that either of them had never worked before, just they had never had to. Wherever we had been in the world, both of them had always kept busy at something, Dad with his art and music and Mum with her art, jewellery design and homemade bath products.

  Finding a job for Mum was no problem. Aunt Sarah had put her to work as soon as she had arrived. Before Aunt Sarah left, she helped Mum to set up a workshop in the basement where she could make jewellery for one of the shops. Aunt Sarah also asked Mum to develop a range of bath soaps, oils and gels, and the house did smell lovely as she experimented with various combinations of herbs, fruits and flowers and their scents wafted up the stairs. Between the posh shops and home, I floated from one lovely smell to another.

  Dad wasn’t having such an easy time. Although there was loads he could do – as he is good at lots of different things: art, music (he plays piano, cello and guitar) and he speaks a few languages (Italian, Spanish, French and Urdu), he wasn’t having much luck finding anyone to employ him. In the first few days in London, he took slides of his paintings around galleries and, although a few expressed interest and one even offered to give him a show, they were all booked up for the next year.

  He tried a few of his orchestra friends, but no one had any vacancies except as a stand-in if anyone was sick, but with that there was no promise of regular money.

  ‘Nothing for a Renaissance man like me,’ he said and went and took it out on the piano for an hour. That was one of Dad’s ways of dealing with problems – make a lot of noise! Although he did play brilliantly sometimes, I longed for the kind of father who had a quieter method of letting off steam.

  After we’d been in London a week, Dad blasted out one morning declaring that he was going to the job centre and he was going to take any job there was going. He came back a couple of hours later looking miserable. Really down. I made him a ginger, lemon and honey drink the way he likes and took it to the basement where he had draped himself on an old velvet chaise longue in Mum’s workshop.

  ‘No luck?’ I asked.

  ‘They offered me a trial job in a DIY store. I’d probably earn no more than your friend Erin, India Jane. Either that or I can work on a building site.’

  For the first time I could remember, my bombastic, endlessly enthusiastic dad looked depressed.

  ‘Something will turn up,’ said Mum.‘Surely you could teach? Music or languages?’

  Dad shook his head. ‘I could, but they won’t let me. You have to have the right qualifications to work in schools or colleges. And you have to have a CV. A record of employment. The system doesn’t allow for people like me. My CV reads like a travel brochure.’

  ‘What about the orchestras?’ I asked.

  ‘Nothing happening. No. It will have to be the building site,’ he said as he sipped the drink I’d given him and made an attempt at looking brave. ‘It’ll be fine. All part of life’s rich experience and maybe something will turn up in the autumn.’

  Thank God for Aunt Sarah’s house, I thought as I went back upstairs. At least we have somewhere to live.

  The following day, Dad went out again and I continued my exploration of the area. I was about to e-mail Erin in the evening about some fabbie dabbie vintage clothing stalls I’d found near Portobello Market, when I heard Dylan yell up the stairs.

  ‘India, INDIAAAAAAAAAAA JAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANE!’

  I went out on to the landing. ‘What?’

  ‘Dad wants us downstairs.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Dunno, but he said to come now. Front room.’

  Hopefully he’s found a job he likes, I thought as I made my way down.

  Mum and Dad were seated on one of the huge squashy leather sofas by the fireplace in the front room. Dad grinned cheerfully when I went in.

  ‘Good news?’ I asked as I sat next to Dylan on the sofa opposite.

  Dad nodded and glanced at Mum. ‘Do you want to tell them or shall I?’

  ‘You go ahead,’ she said.

  Dad gave a brief nod. ‘Well, I’ve got a job.’

  ‘Hurray!’ whooped Dylan.

  ‘Fab,’ I said.‘Or is it? Is it one you want?’

  Dad beamed back at me.‘Oh yes. Couldn’t be better. It’s with an orchestra. Remember my old friend Robin Beaton?’

  Dylan and I nodded. He had been out to see us when we lived in Ireland. He was a pianist with a well known orchestra.

  ‘He’s been unwell,’ Dad continued, ‘and he’s going to have to have short spell in hospital and of course will need time for recuperation.’

  ‘Why’s he in hospital?’ asked Dylan.

  ‘Small op,’ Dad replied.

  ‘What exactly?’ asked Dylan.

  ‘For prostate cancer,’ said Dad.

  ‘Ah,’ said Dylan. ‘Have they got it in time?’

  Mum nodded. ‘They think so.’

  ‘Good,’ said Dylan, ‘because that is one of the cancers that they can do a lot for if it’s caught early enough. I saw a programme about it on cable. Tell him he must eat lots of tomatoes.’

  Mum and Dad exchanged an amused glance at their son, the health expert.

  ‘Yes,’ said Dad. ‘It is treatable and luckily they think they’ve got Robin early enough. The bad news is that he had a whole programme of concerts lined up for over the summer and early autumn. Too late to cancel.’

  ‘He’s asked if your father will take his place and fulfil his commitments,’ said Mum.

  Dylan punched the air. ‘Result,’ he said.

  ‘Brilliant,’ I said.

  ‘I know. Couldn’t be better,’ said Dad with a huge smile.‘My perfect job, plus I may make connections for the future.’

  ‘So when do you start?’ I asked.

  ‘Immediately. First concert is next weekend. It will be good money too.’

  I was about to get up when Mum coughed. ‘Er India Jane, don’t go yet – there’s more.’

  ‘Oh right,’ I said as I sat back down. ‘Hey, we can come and see you perform.’

  Dad laughed. ‘I doubt that,’ he said.

  ‘Why not?’ I asked.

  ‘The concerts are all over Europe,’ Mum explained.

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘So you’ll be away?’

  Mum and Dad nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘And we stay here with Mum?’

  Mum glanced at Dad.‘Not exactly. I’m going to go with your father.’

  My heart sank. We’d only just got to London and we were going to be off again.‘So when do we leave?’ I asked.

  ‘We? Ah, no. Change of plan all round,’ said Dad. ‘But you’ll like it.’

  ‘Your father and I have talked it over,’ said Mum,‘and Dylan is going to stay with Ethan for a week.’

  ‘With Ethan?’ asked Dylan. ‘But is there room fo
r me there with the twins?’

  Mum nodded.‘The twins are going to go in with Jessica and you will share with Ethan. Only for a week while I go with your father and help him get settled and then you can come out to join us.’

  Dylan beamed at this bit of news as he hero-worshipped his elder step-brother and loved spending time with the twins.‘Cool.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mum. ‘I think it will work out perfectly.’

  ‘When will we be back?’ asked Dylan.

  ‘At the end of August ready for the new school term,’ said Mum. ‘Your dad will be back late October.’

  Everyone was looking very happy and pleased with themselves at the news. Except me. I felt like someone had knocked me over.

  ‘Er . . . what about me?’ I asked.

  Dad got up as if the meeting was over. He ran his fingers through his hair, then looked at his watch. ‘You, my darling Cinnamon Girl, you get to go on the holiday of a lifetime.’

  Oh God, I thought as the sinking feeling in my chest grew heavier. How many times have I heard that before he uproots us all for another country. Oh please, please, don’t let it be another country.

  ‘Where exactly?’ I asked.

  ‘Your mother spoke to Sarah this afternoon . . .’

  Phew, I thought, so I can stay here with Kate. Wow, that’ll be brilliant. And then I realised that Dad was still talking.