Million Dollar Mates

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Million Dollar Mates Page 13

by Cathy Hopkins

Dad sighed. ‘I couldn’t handle it. I could see you and Charlie were OK with your gran and Aunt Maddie and I just needed some time out, on my own, you know? I had so many mixed-up feelings.’

  I nodded. I knew all about mixed-up feelings.

  ‘I’m afraid I went home, drank far too much and bawled my eyes out as I remembered the better times. I did love your mother, you know. It felt so unfair what happened to her and, well, there was so much left unsaid between us.’

  ‘I hated that day,’ I said. ‘I wish I could have cried but I couldn’t – that is, not on the day.’ I wondered whether to tell Dad my secret. Would he understand? ‘I . . . I got all confused – like, remember those neighbours of ours: the Petersons?’

  Dad nodded. ‘Oh God, that pushy couple! Yes, your mother disliked them, they were always showing off about everything.’

  I took a deep breath and suddenly it felt like I had to tell him. To tell someone at last. It was like a huge wave bursting through a wall and there was no holding it back. ‘Well, they were there at the funeral and they bagged a place on the third row. The third row. I was so mad with them because there were loads of people at the back that Mum had loved who had to stand and there were the Petersons sitting proud as punch in prime seats, like old ladies at a hanging, taking it all in. All the tributes and the hymns. Even one of Mum’s cousins, Heather, had to stand at the back and she and Mum were really close. I felt so angry and all I could think about was how mad I was and how Mum never liked them anyway and then I thought I was the worst person in the world for thinking such bad thoughts in a church. Mum wouldn’t have liked that and they probably didn’t mean any harm and then I didn’t know what I was feeling, I only knew that I couldn’t cry. Not then. I’ve felt terrible about it ever since, like I didn’t even cry at my mum’s funeral because I was so busy being cross and judging people. Charlie cried. Aunt Maddie cried. Gran did. I didn’t. How bad is that? It eats away at me. Instead of grieving for Mum, I was thinking hateful thoughts about people who probably meant well. I am the meanest, worst person in the world.’

  ‘Oh no, Jess. Not at all!’

  I felt like I was going to cry again. ‘I am. I’m a horrible person. I hate myself . . .’ I couldn’t say any more. I felt a wave of emotion rising up from the pit of my stomach and tears spilt down my cheeks. My head ached and my chest hurt. The tears seemed to be coming from a bottomless pit inside of me and I had to take great gulps of air in order to be able to breathe.

  Dad put his arm around me, cuddled me to him and let me cry into his chest. ‘And you’ve been carrying this around all this time?’ he asked, when finally the flood had subsided.

  I nodded. ‘And now I don’t seem to be able to stop crying!’ What is the matter with me? I thought. ‘Am . . . am I the worst person in the world?’

  ‘Not at all. Not at all,’ he said and he held me close. It was a long time since Dad had cuddled me and I felt like a little girl again, safe in his arms, breathing in his familiar Dad smell.

  ‘Grief is a curious thing,’ he said, after a few minutes. ‘Sometimes when you can’t handle what you’re feeling, your psyche throws up an emotion that you can handle instead. I think the pain of losing your mother was too much for you – no girl your age should have to bury their mum – and what happened was that part of you threw up a feeling that you could handle: anger, and you went with that. Quite understandable. In a way, your anger was protecting you from the deeper feelings that were too much that day.’

  It kind of made sense. ‘So I’m not a bad person, then?’

  ‘Not at all. Not one bit. And the Petersons should have had more respect, more sensitivity. They should have stood at the back and let your mother’s close relatives take the seats.’ Dad suddenly grinned mischievously. ‘Hey – you know what you were saying about friends and family being important?’

  ‘I know and I am sorry I don’t want to stay here. I . . . I know you want me to but—’

  ‘I do want you here, of course I do, you’re my daughter and I love you but, as I said, your happiness comes first . . . But I may just have something that might tempt you to stay . . .’ He had a mysterious twinkle in his eye.

  No way, I thought, as I sat up and wiped my eyes. Nothing on earth will tempt me to stay, not even having cosy chats like this with you. Although I couldn’t deny that it had been nice and I did feel closer to him than I had in ages.

  ‘OK, shoot,’ I ventured.

  ‘It has to be a secret. Not a word to anyone.’

  I made the zipping my lips gesture with my index finger and thumb. ‘I told you mine, so you tell me yours.’

  ‘You know how Pia’s mum has been round sorting out the mess in the spa?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Well, we got chatting before you came back. She’s done a first class job—’

  ‘Mum always rated her.’

  ‘Well, she was telling me about her work situation and how things have been tough for her of late, so . . . I’ve decided to offer her the job.’

  ‘You mean running the spa?’

  ‘I do. As you know, it comes with a house, so with her current difficulties I can’t see how she can refuse so, if she accepts the job, she’ll be—’

  ‘Oh my God! Living here!’ I felt a rush of hope. ‘And so would Pia.’

  Dad nodded.

  ‘Oh my God,’ I repeated. Visions of Pia living next door to me flooded into my brain. Going to school together. Getting the bus back.

  Having her at Porchester Park would change everything. It wouldn’t be me against the world. It would be us. Mates together. I could survive anything if only I had her close by to talk to and share everything with.

  ‘Might that change your mind?’

  ‘That would be totally totally fantastic.’

  ‘Not a word to anyone, just in case Mrs Carlsen doesn’t accept.’

  ‘Not a word,’ I said.

  As soon as Dad had gone back to work, I got out my phone and dialled Pia.

  ‘Hey, Jess—’ she started.

  ‘You will never believe what I am going to tell you.’

  16

  Party Time

  As soon as Pia opened the front door, I could smell the lovely familiar scent of her mum’s herbal potions.

  ‘You’ve done a great job settling in,’ I said, as I looked around the new house. It had only been a few days since they’d moved in, but Mrs Carlsen had already done her Queen of Organisation act and got the place spick and span.

  It had been perfect timing all round. I knew that Pia had been worried about where she and her mum were going to live when their lease expired, and I had been worried too, in case they moved further away – so it felt like a fairy godmother had waved a magic wand for all of us, getting Mrs Carlsen the spa job. Having Pia as my neighbour had totally changed how I felt about being at Porchester Park, and I had told Dad that I would stay. I also felt like a huge weight had lifted since sharing my secret about the funeral with him. Maybe one day I’ll tell Pia about it too, though not yet. What I’d told Dad was just between him and me and I knew that he understood completely.

  ‘So, what do you think about going to this party?’ asked Pia, eyeing a familiar silver envelope on the desk in her bedroom. ‘I’ve been invited now, and so has Henry, and with you and Charlie as well, there’ll be four of us against them.’

  I picked up the invite and turned it over in my hand. It was Pia’s first week at Porchester Park – how could I say no to her after all that she’d been through recently? Plus, if she was going, it might actually be fun. ‘I suppose it would be a shame to miss a party like that.’

  ‘Yeah – and you know how I love a chance to dress up,’ she said.

  I grinned. ‘Shame Alisha didn’t go for the pauper theme, though. We could have Versaced up a black bin liner with some safety pins.’

  ‘That’s my girl,’ said Pia. ‘So. What are we going to wear?’

  Over the next week, we spent hours trying to find the perfect ou
tfit. We went over to Gran’s and rummaged through her old dresses, hoping for something vintage and original. Nothing looked right. Then we went through Pia’s mum’s evening clothes. A posh trouser suit and a black velvet dress. Not right for a teenager. We went to Flo’s, but all her clothes were floaty and girlie, not mine or Pia’s style at all. We didn’t bother going to Meg’s, as we knew her wardrobe would be full of jeans, T-shirts and sneakers, not posh party wear. By the end of the week, we’d tried on every stitch of clothing we had between us but there was still nothing suitable. There were going to be so many amazing outfits at the party – how could we even hope to compete?

  ‘We’re going to stand out as a real couple of losers,’ I said gloomily, as I looked at myself in a pair of old black trousers and a red tunic top. The outfit looked so shabby in comparison to the dresses we’d seen Alisha trying on in Sloane Street. ‘I saw a van arriving last night and rails of clothes being wheeled through the lobby to the lift. Going up to Alisha’s, I bet,’ I sighed.

  Pia did the L for loser sign on her forehead. ‘You can be a loser but I refuse to talk that language. Loser is a state of mind. Maybe Flo could make us something. She did some great stuff for the school fashion show last Christmas.’

  ‘Maybe,’ I said. I couldn’t raise any enthusiasm. I had been one of Flo’s models at that show and everything had looked wrong on me. Her clothes were OK – romantic, like her – but they were for waifs with no boobs or hips, and I had both.

  ‘Maybe Alisha will go as a beast,’ said Pia. ‘Sexy beast, type of thing.’

  ‘She’s certainly beastly enough,’ I replied.

  ‘Arf, arf,’ said Pia. ‘Tu es très amusant ce matin.’

  The following morning, Dad had to pick up something for a resident from somewhere near our school, so he offered to give me a lift. On the way there, I told him of my dilemma, in the hope that he’d write a big cheque so that I could go and buy a Dior original. Fat chance, I knew, but a girl can dream.

  ‘I was talking to Mrs Lewis yesterday about the arrangements for the party,’ he said, as we wound our way through the traffic. ‘She says that some people are really going to town on the theme and taking it very literally – so it’s not just a chance to wear a posh frock but to do something really creative. There’s your opportunity to think outside the box, Jess. Be original, individual. Have some fun with it! You don’t want to go looking like everyone else. You’ve worn some amazing fancy dress in your time. Remember when you went to Pia’s party dressed as one of the Daleks from Doctor Who? Why not go down to a fancy dress hire shop? I reckon I could stump up for a costume of sorts for you and Charlie.’

  ‘I was ten, then,’ I replied. ‘So I don’t think so.’

  As we continued on our way, I searched my mind for a unique idea. Something so brilliantly eye-catching that JJ couldn’t fail to notice me in it. Nothing had happened with Tom after the fundraiser apart from the occasional glance when we passed in the school corridor, so I had decided to turn my attentions to JJ. If I got off with him, that would show Tom! But what should I go as to impress JJ? Beauty or the beast? Dad had got me thinking.

  Then it hit me. We’re going to do this party in style, I thought, as Dad dropped me off at school. I couldn’t wait to tell Pia my idea.

  On the night of the party, Charlie, Henry, Pia and me made our way through Reception to the desk and across to the lift where a couple of ushers dressed in black and white greeted us. Dad had advised us to wait until everyone else had arrived and to go up when the party was already buzzing, rather than being the first people there and standing around like limp lettuces.

  ‘Time to be fashionably late,’ I said, as I checked my watch.

  One of the ushers bowed and pressed the button for the lift. He didn’t bat an eyelid at our costumes.

  ‘Probably seen people dressed as all sorts of beasts and ghouls going up,’ Pia said.

  ‘Mff,’ I mumbled from under my snorkel. We caught sight of ourselves in the mirrored walls of the lift and burst out laughing. Charlie and Henry looked hysterical. Both had dressed up as beauties and were kitted out in full drag. Charlie was a Scottish lady in a kilt, his orange curly wig topped with a tam o’shanter – a red tartan beret – which he’d paired with red tights, yellow wellies and a ton of make-up. Henry had gone for a more traditional beauty and had blinged up in a full footballer’s wife outfit – long blonde wig, white dress and a pair of size ten white high heels he’d got from somewhere. He was clearly having difficulty standing in them, because he flopped his feet over to rest on the outer sides. He tossed his golden tresses to show off chandelier-sized diamante earrings. ‘Subtle, don’t you think?’

  ‘Very,’ I replied. ‘And your dress. It’s so—’

  ‘Revealing? Oh hell,’ he said, adjusting his bra, which he’d stuffed with a pair of football socks. One ‘boob’ had slipped, so the other looked twice the size. ‘How do you manage these things?’

  ‘You could have shaved your legs,’ said Pia, when she glanced down at his hairy calves.

  ‘Dahling,’ he said in a high voice, ‘I prefer the natural look.’

  ‘And that’s why you’ve applied your make-up with a trowel and have a ton of red lipstick on your lips and cheeks?’ said Pia. ‘Very natural. Not.’

  ‘Balance, dahling, balance,’ he said, then dropped his voice down to a more normal pitch. ‘But honestly, I don’t know how you girls walk in these shoes.’

  Pia and me had gone for the beast look. I was the Loch Ness monster. I was wearing a pale grey wetsuit, black flippers and a pair of goggles over a fish facemask. I looked truly beastly. Pia had gone for the ghoul look and was wearing a Victorian nightdress which she now buttoned over her head so that it looked like she was headless. Under her arm, she was carrying a false head that dripped fake blood. The only way she could see was by peeping through the buttons in the nightdress and groping with her hands. I thought we looked terrific. It was going to be a great laugh seeing what other beasts were there and loads more fun than trying to be a beauty on a budget.

  The lift reached the lobby of the party room floor and, as the doors opened, we minced, tottered and flopped past a trio of ushers in the same black-and-white uniforms as the ones downstairs. One took our party invite and checked our names against a long list. Another bowed and offered us a drink off a silver tray. Henry took one of the champagne flutes and held it by its twisted silver stem next to Pia’s false head – even the waiter had to laugh. I took a sip of my pink drink. It tasted divine: passionfruit and mango. Lovely.

  Henry asked for a straw so that Pia could drink through the gap in her nightie. She took a slurp as an usher opened the double doors to the main room and the party.

  ‘Miss Jess Hall, Miss Pia Carlsen, Mr Charles Hall and Mr Henry Wade,’ he announced in a loud, posh voice.

  We stepped into a glittering room already crowded with guests mingling and chatting. The room had been transformed into a white and silver grotto. I felt like I’d walked onto a movie set. A few people turned to see who had just come in. They froze, eyes wide, jaws dropping. I heard laughter to our left. And then silence as the rest of the guests turned and stared.

  I spat out my snorkel. ‘Oh. My. God,’ I said, as I peered through my goggles, which were beginning to steam up from my breath. I could see that we’d got it thoroughly, disgustingly, mega wrong. Everyone else looked glamorous with a capital G – the room was a sea of diamonds and designer dresses. Dad had got it totally wrong when he had said that people were going to be creative. There wasn’t a wacky fancy dress outfit in sight, whereas we looked like we’d just escaped from a cheap joke shop.

  Pia was clearly having difficulty seeing at all and walked into a wall. ‘Er . . . Oops,’ she said, as Henry steered her back towards the party.

  ‘Don’t let her wander off,’ he said. ‘She might walk into a table full of food.’

  ‘Look at the guests,’ I whispered. Pia peered out from a space between nightdress buttons. Most
of the girls had come as beauties, with fabulous frocks, glittering jewels and killer heels. The boys were dressed in suits mainly, although a good number of them had gold or silver Venetian carnival masks on and a few had red horns on their heads. All very elegant and tasteful.

  It was so different to the last time I had been up in this room to meet the staff – they’d been dressed in ordinary clothes, the refreshments had been few and far-between and the decorations non-existent. This time, everyone exuded glamour, the room had been transformed into winter wonderland – like a Snow Queen’s palace – and everywhere you looked there were huge vases filled with hundreds of white-stemmed roses. The lighting was soft and an army of waiters and waitresses were taking around drinks and silver trays full of enticing-looking canapés.

  ‘Wall-to-wall beauties,’ giggled Pia, as she peeped out at the guests. ‘Oops.’

  Mrs Lewis came forward with a smile plastered onto her face and peered at my mask and goggles. ‘And who do we have under here?’

  ‘Jess, Mrs Lewis – Jess Hall,’ I said, as I tried to raise my mask a little but only succeeded in ramming my snorkel up my nose.

  ‘Ah.’ She looked at the headless nightshirt. ‘And?’

  ‘Pia,’ said a shaky voice from under the blood-spattered white fabric. I could tell she was having a hard time not cracking up laughing.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Lewis,’ said Charlie.

  Mrs Lewis looked across at the boys. She struggled to turn shock into a polite expression.

  ‘Ah, Charlie and . . .?’

  ‘Henry,’ he said, in a girlie voice with a flick of his hair.

  Mrs Lewis kept her smile fixed on her face. ‘Well, what . . . what novel costumes. Er . . . have you got a drink? Do come and meet everyone.’

  She beckoned us towards the other guests, most of whom were still gaping at us open-mouthed.

  ‘Ohmigod. There’s Kitty Bonard,’ said Pia through her peephole. ‘How does Alisha know her?’

  I glanced over to see a stunning girl with long red hair in a scarlet dress. ‘Who’s she?’

 

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