Love Lottery

by Cathy Hopkins

  We sat in a circle on the floor and in turn I did Izzie’s nails, she did Lucy’s, Lucy did Lia’s, Lia did TJ’s, TJ did Cat’s, Cat did Nesta’s and Nesta did mine.

  As we painted, pink, purple and blue, we talked about all sorts of stuff and found we had loads in common: boys, beauty tips, hair, fashion, travelling, movies. We even liked the same books and authors.

  ‘I so wish you guys lived nearer,’ I said.

  ‘Ditto,’ chorused the girls.

  After the makeover session, while we were waiting for our nails to dry, Cat suggested that we should have a homemade cabaret.

  ‘Brill,’ said Lucy, ‘only I can’t sing or dance.’

  She was game, though, and started off by doing a quick burst of mad Irish dancing while we all clapped and stomped our feet like mad.

  Nesta was next and she did some fab flamenco while we all clapped again. She was amazing, graceful. A really good dancer.

  Lia did some ballet and after a few minutes the rest of us got up and flapped away like fairy elephants behind her. It was so funny and I asked her to record it on her camera phone so I could show Dad. As she recorded us, an awful feeling of panic hit me in the pit of my stomach. Dad didn’t live with Mum and me any more. There would be no more getting home and bursting into his office to have a laugh over something that had happened. I pushed the feeling down. I didn’t want the evening to be ruined.

  Izzie taught us some Egyptian dance moves and Lia put on the song ‘Walk Like an Egyptian’ and we all shuffled, wiggled and wobbled round the room like idiots.

  ‘TJ, you’re next,’ said Nesta pulling her friend up from the beanbag where she’d collapsed after the belly-dancing. ‘Come on.’

  ‘Oh, but I can’t do anything . . .’ she protested, then pointed at me. ‘Let Becca go next. She’s not done anything.’

  ‘Yeah. Becca! Oh, sing, Becca,’ said Nesta. ‘Do the song you did for Pop Princess.’

  ‘But I need music,’ I said and acted the prima donna. ‘I can’t possibly perform without my backing band and I have to have my own dressing room first, filled with only white flowers! So sorry, no. The conditions aren’t right.’

  Nesta picked up a pillow and held it over me threateningly.

  I held my arms over my head to protect myself, but she bashed me anyway. ‘OK, OK, I’ll sing . . .’ I said.

  Lia leapt up. ‘Hold on. You want music? I have just the thing,’ she said. ‘Mum bought it last week for a laugh. Hold on a mo.’

  She dashed out and returned a few minutes later with a large box-type thing that she plugged it into the wall.

  ‘Brill!’ said Izzie. ‘It’s a karaoke machine!’

  Lia gave us a brochure that listed all the songs that were on the machine. We went down the list and sure enough, the song that I’d sung for the contest was there. ‘Nothing Compares 2 U’. Lia found it on the machine so I stood up and did my song while they swayed along then joined in with the last chorus.

  After that, there was no stopping us and we all got up to sing. Cat and I did songs from Grease while Lia did go-go dancing in the background. Nesta, TJ, Lucy and Izzie soon joined her and the line of them dancing away looked hysterical.

  We did all the usual songs: ‘I Will Survive’, ‘Total Eclipse of the Heart’, Kylie, Madonna, Mariah Carey, Britney and no one cared about hitting the right notes or trying to impress anyone else – in fact TJ, Lia and Lucy were so off-key, it made my eyes water. At one point, Lia’s dad came in to see what the noise was and put his fingers in his ears, then bent over as if he was in agony.

  Through it all, I could hear that Izzie really did have an amazing voice and when the others tired of howling away, Izzie and I warbled our way through ‘I Will Always Love You’.

  ‘Why didn’t you go in for the Pop Princess competition?’ I asked after we’d finished. ‘They had trials in London.’

  Izzie nodded. ‘I know. I found out about it too late and by the time I did, they were all ready into Round Two and not taking new people. But as we said, we watched it.’

  ‘You’d have easily got to the final,’ I said. ‘You have a great voice.’

  ‘So do you,’ said Izzie.

  ‘You both do,’ said Lia.

  ‘Izzie writes her own songs too, don’t you, Izzie?’ said Lucy.

  Izzie nodded.

  ‘Becca does too,’ said Lia,

  ‘I’d love to see them some time,’ said Izzie.

  ‘Oh . . . but . . .’

  ‘Hey, don’t be modest,’ said Nesta. ‘If your songwriting is anything like as good as your voice, then it must be brilliant.’

  I noticed that Cat and Lia were staying very quiet, so I did too. The last thing I wanted to do was show any of my songs to anyone. In fact, since the beginning of the holidays, I’d hardly written anything except for two pathetic attempts – one about heroines and one about Henry. Songwriting wasn’t like singing for me. Singing came easily. Songwriting was much harder.

  ‘Hey,’ said Nesta. ‘I’ve just had the most brilliant idea. Why don’t you and Izzie do a duet for the Maker Festival? What do you think?”

  I glanced over at Izzie and she nodded. ‘God. Yeah, I’d love to. What do you think, Becca? Would you mind me singing with you? But if you’re up for doing a solo spot, I don’t want to steal your thunder or anything.’

  I thought about it for a moment. Did I care about having a solo spot? Not really. It was the singing that I enjoyed more than anything. It was the one time when I felt that I was completely alive and could express my feelings. I didn’t need to have all the limelight and singing in public with Izzie might be fun.

  ‘I think I’d love it if we did a duet,’ I said with a grin.

  ‘Excellent,’ said Nesta. ‘Now, everyone up for the Greek Zorba dance.’

  We all got up, put our hands on each other’s shoulders and did Greek dancing round the room. Then Lucy started giggling, which set the rest of us off and we had to lie on the bed, where I laughed until my jaw ached.

  It was then that Mrs Axford put her head round the door and said, ‘Er, Becca. Your mum’s on the phone . . .’

  Oops, I thought.

  ‘WHY DIDN’T YOU KEEP your mobile on?’ ‘Why didn’t you let me know where you were?’ ‘How was I supposed to know that you were up at Lia’s?’ ‘Who else was there?’ ‘Did you get supper?’ ‘Do you think I’m psychic or what?’

  Mum hit me with a barrage of questions when I walked through the door the next morning. She’d allowed me to stay on at Lia’s for the sleepover, but boy was I in the doghouse when I got home. I’d tried to time it so that she would have left for work, but her shifts were different in the summer and she was only working afternoons this week.

  She was waiting for me with tired eyes and an angry expression. Nag, nag, nag. No wonder Dad was leaving her, I thought as she started on me and wouldn’t stop. She’d phoned round everywhere, woken up Cat’s dad, woken up Mac’s gran, who had gone to Lal and found out from him that I was up at Lia’s.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re getting so het up about,’ I said. ‘I mean I’ve stayed at Lia’s a million times and you’ve never bothered before.’

  ‘Only because you told me that you were there before.’

  ‘Where else am I going to go?’ I said. ‘You should have known.’

  Wrong thing to say. Mum’s mouth tightened and she looked like she was about to let rip . . . when suddenly her shoulders slumped and she looked like someone had let the air out of her.

  She reached across the table and put her hand on mine. ‘I know you’re not happy about what’s happening at the moment, Becca. This is a difficult time for all of us and I wanted to be sure that you were OK.’

  I pulled my hand away from under hers and crossed my arms over my stomach. ‘I’m fine. I have my friends at least.’

  Mum sighed and got up. ‘I have to get going, Becca,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a dental appointment in the village. How about we do something when I’m back. G
o for a walk or a coffee or something before I go over to Plymouth?’

  I shrugged. ‘Got plans already. I may do something with Lal or the London girls. They’re only here for a short time.’

  ‘Oh, you’ve made friends with them, have you?’ asked Mum with a glimmer of a smile.

  ‘A bit.’ I didn’t want to get into details with her. I knew I was being uncommunicative, but I couldn’t help it. Part of me still felt that she was to blame about Dad leaving and I wasn’t in the mood for being all pally-wally friends with her, as if everything was hunky-dory when in fact she’d ruined our lives.

  After Mum had gone, I went up to her and dad’s bedroom to see if he’d taken any more things. He had, which meant that he must have been back yesterday when I was out. He hadn’t taken all his clothes, but there were definitely gaps in the hanging space in the wardrobe where his shirts and trousers had been. One of the drawers in the chest of drawers was empty.

  I sat on their bed, smoothed down the bedspread on Dad’s side and wondered if Mum felt lonely in such a big bed on her own.

  In the bathroom, Dad’s toothbrush had gone. I felt a stab of sadness when I saw two toothbrushes in the glass instead of three – my pink one and Mum’s red one. Dad’s had been blue. His would be lonely on its own in a strange bathroom. I looked around to see what else had gone – his soap bag, shaving stuff. I opened the cabinet above the bath and found a bottle of his aftershave lotion tucked behind cotton buds and shampoo. Only a bit left in the bottom. I pulled the bottle out and sprayed. The scent of lime and sandalwood filled the air. The smell of Dad. I took the bottle into my bedroom and hid it under my mattress in case he moved far away and I needed reminding of him.

  I wandered round the rest of the house, looking for evidence of Dad and wondering what it would be like when he’d really moved out. Already the house felt quieter.

  His office was untouched, his computer in its usual place, books and files on the shelves. He must be coming back for all this, I thought, feeling glad that he hadn’t left completely yet.

  After mooching through his office, I went into our living room and opened the cupboards in there. Books, videos, DVDs, CDs, photo albums. How were they going to decide who got what? As I sat on the floor to have a closer look at what was in there, I thought that breaking up when you’ve lived together for a long time must be really difficult. It’s not like dating someone and then dumping them. If you’ve lived together, there are so many shared things. And what if you have pets? You can’t split a cat or a dog or a goldfish down the middle. On second thoughts, I guess you could . . . but it wouldn’t be very nice.

  I had an hour before I’d arranged to meet Lal in Cawsand, so I put on one of Mum’s love ballad CDs, pulled the photo albums out on to the floor and sat down to look through them. Mum was always so good at putting them into books and labelling them with the year and the place.

  First I looked at the one with Mum and Dad BB – i.e. Before Becca. It was weird to think that this world and these people existed before I was born. There were loads of Mum as a teenager, my age – one of her in a garden, laughing into the camera; one of her bent over a book studying. She looked so different. Whatever happened to that person? I wondered as I turned the pages. She looked so full of joy and now she looked sad, serious and care-ridden. Like life had worn her down.

  Halfway through the album there were shots of Mum and Dad when they were at university, which is where they met. Dad looked so young – barely older than Mac and Squidge. Some shots showed him with a moustache. Ewww. I’m glad he got rid of that, I thought – it looked like he had a caterpillar under his nose. There were pics of Mum with long, straight hair, then a perm, then dressed in the power suits and big jewellery that were so popular in the eighties. There were a couple of pages of wedding pictures with Mum gazing lovingly into Dad’s eyes. She looked so pretty with her hair tied up, laughing as wedding guests threw confetti over them. They looked happy. Then a holiday by the sea somewhere – I think it was Spain they went to for their honeymoon – Mum in a bikini, Dad in a hammock in a garden. Then back in the UK, Dad standing with a sports car outside the advertising agency where he worked in Bristol, Mum with wellies and a watering can the garden. Smiling. Happy days.

  I lifted the next album on to my knee. Ah, along comes baby me, beaming parents holding me in their arms. In the garden, toddling into flower beds. School, holding Dad’s hand and looking miserable because I didn’t want to go in. Shots of me in the school production of The Wizard of Oz. I was Dorothy. That’s when I first got a taste for performing and realised I could sing. ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow’ was my party piece at family gatherings until I grew older and thought it way uncool.

  I began to feel desolate as I pored over the albums whilst listening to the music. One song after another about lost love, the pain of love, the loneliness of love. I sang along with the ones I knew as I looked through the pages. Some of the lyrics expressed the whole situation perfectly and I marvelled at how songs could do that. I could never understand people who didn’t have time for music. For me, it was a release, a solace, a reassurance that I wasn’t alone in what I was experiencing, whether it be happiness or sadness.

  I pulled out the last of the photo albums. Birthdays, Christmases, family holidays – how could they have forgotten these times? A whole lifetime of happiness was here in pictures. I remembered it all. We were all happy. I’m not imagining it. I remembered Mum and Dad snuggling up on the sofa and me coming home from school once and catching them. They sprang apart then started giggling like school kids. That had been a long time ago. When did it all go so wrong? And how were they ever going to split up these albums into his and hers?

  As I flicked through the pages, I tried to work out when the smiles disappeared. Was it when Dad lost his job in advertising and we moved down here to live? I wondered. I think it was. They’ve forgotten that they were happy. They’ve forgotten that they loved each other. I must remind them, I decided as I hauled the albums on to the kitchen table. If only Mum could change. Be happier again, it could work. I didn’t want her to be without Dad and I didn’t want Dad to be without her. They were meant to be together. Anyone who looked at the photos could see that.

  Before I went out, I took the CD out of the player and left it with a note, saying, Dear Mum (and Dad, if you come by today), look at these whilst listening to this CD. How can you have forgotten all of this? Why are you splitting up? You must be mad. Your loving daughter, Becca.

  I called Dad to make sure that he would come over today and got his voice mail. ‘I’ve left something for you on the kitchen table,’ I said into the phone.

  And then I ran off to meet Lal. I didn’t want to stay in our house any longer. It felt too quiet and empty, as if everyone had already moved on.

  SNOG. SNOG . . . OH HERE we go again.

  I pushed Lal off, extracted myself from his limpet-like grasp, sat up and looked out to sea at Cawsand Bay. I had to face it – it just wasn’t happening for me with him any more. No fireworks. No tip-to-toes tingles. He’d got me at a vulnerable moment. If only I hadn’t fallen for Squidge’s dare to kiss the first boy we saw on the beach, I’d have never got into this mess.

  ‘Er . . . when are you going back to London?’ I asked, trying to sound casual. I was hoping that it was soon, because I hated finishing with people. I hate hurting their feelings and, despite having cooled off in the snog department, I did like Lal as a person. As a friend. Soon to be long-distant friend.

  Lal gave me a suspicious look. ‘Not sure. Why? Are you tired of me?’

  I hoped that I wasn’t blushing, but I had a feeling that I was. I took a deep breath and reached out for Lal’s hand.

  ‘Listen, Lal, I really like you . . .’

  He snatched his hand back and put an index finger into each ear. ‘Arghhh. Oh God, here we go with the “I really like you conversation” . . . I don’t want to hear it, don’t want to hear. Too soon. Too soon.’

  I pulled hi
s hands away from his head. ‘Listen, idiot, I’m not dumping you.’

  I wasn’t. I’d decided that I couldn’t do it yet. With everyone at home moping about, being miserable, I didn’t want another person in my life to be walking around with a face like a rainy day. He’d be gone soon, and besides, I didn’t want to ruin his holiday. I may be fickle but I’m not mean.

  ‘So what, then?’ asked Lal. ‘What’s going on? And please don’t give me the “I like you as a friend” line.’

  I burst out laughing.

  ‘Why are you laughing?’ asked Lal.

  ‘Oh, nothing . . .’ I couldn’t tell him that I’d been thinking of using exactly that line.

  ‘So what’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing, I guess . . .’

  Lal sighed. ‘I really, really don’t get girls. You are such a strange species.’

  ‘Not strange, just . . . complex. That’s what makes us interesting. So seriously, when are you going back?’

  ‘In a week or so. Soon after the Maker Festival as Dad has to get back to his shop and Mum has clients to see. I might stay longer. Dunno yet. I could camp maybe. Everyone loves it down here. Can you believe Mum and Dad have been checking out properties too?’

  I felt a rising panic. Oh noooooo. Don’t let him come and live down here.

  ‘But no way can they afford anything,’ Lal continued as I sighed inwardly with relief. ‘TJ’s parents are much richer than mine, both being doctors. My mum and dad don’t earn that much. I think we could probably afford a old, battered caravan up at Whitsand and that would be it.’

  ‘What a shame,’ I lied, thinking, Phew, phew, pheee-ew.

  ‘So what did you want to say?’ asked Lal.

  ‘Just that I’m sorry if I’ve been behaving a bit strangely of late. I’m not my normal self.’

  ‘Girls never are,’ said Lal. ‘That’s what makes them a different species. Like, with a boy, you know where you are. Same person most of the time – steady, consistent. But a girl, Jesus, she can go from saint to sinner, cool to bonkers and back in five minutes. That’s why I think it’s best not to talk too much. Only confuses things. Best to just use the language of love.’