Chocolate Box Girls: Bittersweet

by Cathy Cassidy

  PUFFIN

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Books by Cathy Cassidy

  The Chocolate Box Girls

  CHERRY CRUSH

  MARSHMALLOW SKYE

  SUMMER’S DREAM

  BITTERSWEET

  DIZZY

  DRIFTWOOD

  INDIGO BLUE

  SCARLETT

  SUNDAE GIRL

  LUCKY STAR

  GINGERSNAPS

  ANGEL CAKE

  DREAMS AND DOODLES

  LETTERS TO CATHY

  For younger readers

  SHINE ON, DAIZY STAR

  DAIZY STAR AND THE PINK GUITAR

  STRIKE A POSE, DAIZY STAR

  DAIZY STAR, OOH LA LA!

  Hiya!

  I was SO excited to be asked to write a mini book for World Book Day … whoa! I’m in the middle of writing a series called the Chocolate Box Girls right now, so I thought it would be fun to write a story about one of the characters from the series.

  Lots of readers fell for cool surf-boy Shay Fletcher from my book Cherry Crush … so, by popular demand, here is a brand-new story from his viewpoint!

  Shay’s life is ticking over pretty well; he has a cute girlfriend, good friends, a talent for writing songs and playing guitar. And then it all falls apart. Have you ever messed up big time? If so, I think you’ll like Shay’s story. Will he get a happy ending? You’ll have to read on and see …

  Keep reading, keep smiling — and follow your dreams!

  This book has been specially written and published for World Book Day 2013.

  For further information,

  visit www.worldbookday.com

  World Book Day in the UK and Ireland is made possible by generous sponsorship from National Book Tokens, participating publishers, authors and booksellers.

  Booksellers who accept the £1 World Book Day Book Token bear the full cost of redeeming it.

  World Book Day, World Book Night and Quick Reads are annual initiatives designed to encourage everyone in the UK and Ireland – whatever your age – to read more and discover the joy of books.

  World Book Night is a celebration of books and reading for adults and teens on April 23, which sees book gifting and celebrations in thousands of communities around the country.

  www.worldbooknight.org

  Quick Reads provides brilliant short new books by bestselling authors to engage adults in reading.

  www.quickreads.org.uk

  Bittersweet

  A seagull’s call cuts through the misty morning

  Sunlight hasn’t touched the blankets yet …

  I hear your voice whisper in my waking dream,

  And tell myself you’re here, and I forget –

  How yesterday your smiling eyes they left me;

  How yesterday your heart it turned away;

  Last night I dreamt of cherry-blossom trees, but now

  Comes the bittersweet reality of day …

  Cherry-blossom sweet, bitter taste of pain

  Say you won’t forget me, love me still.

  Cherry-blossom sweet, bitter taste of pain

  Give me one more chance … be mine again.

  I sit down by the waterfront, it’s evening.

  The tide comes washing in over my feet.

  It’s so like you in every move it makes …

  It rushed forward to me then, but now retreats.

  If there’s one thing I know about the ocean

  The same thing I can hope for your heart.

  The sea will always find its way back to the shore …

  Can we both find our way back to the start?

  Cherry-blossom sweet, bitter taste of pain

  Say you won’t forget me, love me still.

  Cherry-blossom sweet, bitter taste of pain

  Give me one more chance … be mine again.

  Sometimes, your life can change in a moment and you might not even know it.

  You could be sitting on a beach at sunset with a bunch of friends, playing guitar and singing while people laugh and chat and toast marshmallows, a party going on all around you. You might not notice the tall bearded guy listening intently, or know that he has the power to turn everything upside down for you. Doors could open, opportunities could unfold. Fame and fortune could hook you in, and nothing would ever be the same again.

  My friend Finch jabbed me in the ribs, grinning.

  ‘See that guy with the beard, over there?’ he asked. ‘He’s a friend of Mum’s, from back home in London. She told him about your playing, and he said he’d come down one weekend and listen. He’s called Curtis Rawlins. You should say hello.’

  ‘Yeah?’ I echoed, peering into the twilight. ‘You think?’

  Things had been crazy lately – a TV company was making a film in the village, and Finch’s mum Nikki was the producer. She and Finch had been staying with my girlfriend’s family for the summer, but the film was all wrapped up now. Nikki and Finch were ready to head back to London – the beach party was a kind of goodbye get-together.

  Nikki had heard me play a few times over the holidays, though I’d never thought anything of it. The guy with Nikki looked like your typical film-crew type, youngish and London-cool with a goatee beard and a red trilby hat. I lifted a hand to wave at the two of them, and they grinned back.

  ‘Curtis is a talent scout for a record company,’ Finch said into my ear. ‘Wrecked Rekords … you’ve heard of them, right?’

  I blinked. Everyone has heard of Wrecked Rekords – some of my favourite bands are signed to them.

  ‘Hang on, Finch,’ I frowned. ‘Did you just say …’

  ‘Curtis is a talent scout, yeah,’ he repeated.

  ‘Wow. But no, the other bit …’

  ‘Right. The bit about Mum telling him about your playing?’ Finch checked. ‘Yeah. She sent him a copy of that CD you made for me, and a link to your online stuff, and he liked it and decided to come down and meet you. He’s been listening to you for the last hour. So … are you going to say hi?’

  He nudged me forward.

  ‘Hey, Nikki, Curtis,’ I said politely.

  The beardy guy grinned and shook my hand, and up close I could see he had about a dozen piercings in one ear. ‘Shay, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘Nice playing. And they’re all your own songs?’

  I said that they were, and Curtis asked if I’d ever recorded anything or if I might like to. Wrecked Rekords were always on the lookout for new talent. According to Curtis, I was just the kind of thing they were looking for.

  ‘Seriously?’ I remember saying. ‘Me?’

  Curtis was serious.

  It could have been that easy, I swear. I could have had a recording contract right there and then, with a cool London label. Curtis said he thought I had something special – raw talent, awesome songs, an offbeat kind of charm. Plus, I was young and keen and had the right look.

  Me. Really. He said I could have a career, a future. They’d put down a few tracks, arrange some showcase gigs, get media coverage.

  ‘You could be big,’ Curtis told me. ‘That indie-ballad vibe, the bittersweet songs, the surf-boy looks … it’s unique. They’re going to love you!’

  My life could have changed in that moment, but …

  Well, it didn’t. Just my luck.

  Thing is, I am fifteen. I am still at school, and Curtis said that was no problem at all, but that obviously my parents would have to be on board with the whole thing.
<
br />   ‘Don’t worry,’ he told me. ‘I’ll talk to them, explain it all. Trust me!’

  That’s when I knew I was doomed. My parents were never going to listen to a bloke with a goatee beard and piercings and a red trilby hat, talking about bittersweet songs with a surf-boy twist. It just wouldn’t happen.

  ‘I’m heading back to London tomorrow, but I’ll call in before I go,’ Curtis said. ‘When would be a good time?’

  ‘We work Sundays,’ I told him. ‘My dad runs the sailing centre in the village, and Sunday is one of our busiest days …’

  ‘I’ll definitely need to speak to him,’ Curtis said.

  I sighed. ‘Well … our bookings don’t start until eleven on weekends, so if you called in around ten Dad should still be home …’

  ‘Cool,’ Curtis grinned.

  But it wasn’t cool at all, and I wasn’t the only one who thought so.

  ‘D’you think you’d better tell your dad first?’ my girlfriend Cherry said. ‘Just mention it, set the scene a bit. So it doesn’t come as too much of a shock?’

  ‘Maybe,’ I said.

  ‘I think you should,’ she persisted. ‘You know what he’s like. A bit cynical? You have to give him time to get used to the idea, prepare him a bit, or else he’ll never even let Curtis over the doorstep!’

  I looked up at the moon, a crescent of silver in the dark September sky. I was looking for inspiration, ideas, but the moon just blinked back at me, impassive.

  ‘I’ll tell him first thing tomorrow,’ I promised Cherry.

  Let’s just say it didn’t go too well.

  I spilled the beans over breakfast – Dad’s favourite scrambled-egg feast. I even made him a banana smoothie with cinnamon sprinkles, but it was no use. He said no – actually, he yelled it, and there was a lot of swearing mixed in there too, so I knew he wasn’t about to change his mind. I texted Cherry to tell her, and she rang back right away, telling me not to give up.

  ‘Give him time to mull it over,’ she insisted. ‘You might be surprised.’

  ‘Doubt it,’ I huffed. ‘He won’t listen … He hates the whole idea. Hopeless.’

  ‘Nikki and Curtis can explain things better, though,’ Cherry pointed out. ‘The whole thing will have more weight, more gravity, coming from them. You’ve done the groundwork … relax, Shay. They’ll soon talk your dad round.’

  Ha. Pigs might fly.

  Now, half an hour later, I’m sitting on my bedroom window sill wishing I had never heard of Curtis Rawlins. I don’t think Dad has calmed down and started to accept the idea of me getting a record deal, not from the dark, brooding look on his face or the way he is stomping around the kitchen. Mum and Ben have made themselves scarce and headed down to the sailing centre to set up.

  ‘Not looking good, little brother,’ Ben said as he left. ‘Sorry.’

  I’m sorry too. I press my face against the bedroom window, watching the path, hoping to spot Curtis coming and head him off before Dad gets hold of him. Things could get messy. In the end, I am not fast enough – Dad whips the door open just as Curtis and Nikki are striding up the path, their faces bright with opportunity and hope.

  ‘Whatever you want from us, it’s not happening,’ Dad is roaring even before I can get down into the hallway. ‘I know your sort. Whatever kind of deal you are offering, forget it – my son wants nothing to do with you!’

  ‘Please, Mr Fletcher,’ Finch’s mum says. ‘Hear us out. I can assure you that Curtis is making a very genuine offer here –’

  ‘Not interested,’ Dad snaps, and my heart sinks. He is not going to budge, not even for a film producer and a London record company talent scout. Especially not for them.

  ‘I’m not sure if you realize,’ Curtis says, ‘but Shay here could really make his mark in the music business. Wrecked Rekords would nurture him, develop him, perfect the product and polish up his performance skills …’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Dad says.

  ‘But, Mr Fletcher – Shay’s got it all. Looks, skill, a unique style …’

  Dad’s eyes skim over Curtis with his goatee beard and piercings and red trilby hat. He grits his teeth, struggling not to share his opinion of the talent scout’s own unique style.

  ‘Nothing doing,’ Dad repeats firmly. ‘The music business is all drink and drugs and debauchery. It’s corrupt, that’s what it is. No son of mine is going in for all that malarky!’

  ‘It doesn’t have to be like that,’ Nikki argues. ‘You could manage him, make sure he was looked after. Shay has a talent. You wouldn’t want him to waste that, Mr Fletcher, would you?’

  ‘Talent?’ Dad snorts. ‘When has talent ever been enough? You’ve been watching too much X-Factor. Listen, because I don’t think you heard me the first time. Over. My. Dead. Body. Clear enough for you?’

  I cringe. How can he be so rude, so aggressive? I bite my lip and roll my eyes, and hope that Nikki and Curtis know how mortified I am feeling.

  ‘All that showbiz nonsense,’ Dad rants on. ‘Ridiculous! Shay is fifteen years old. He’s still at school, and I need him here at the sailing centre too. This is a family business, in case you haven’t noticed. And it’s real work, proper physical work, not your airy-fairy music rubbish!’

  ‘Dad!’ I cut in. ‘Please? This is a once-in-a-lifetime chance! If you’d just give Nikki and Curtis a fair hearing –’

  ‘I’ve listened,’ he huffs. ‘And I didn’t like what I heard. It’s a con, Shay, can’t you see that? So, thanks, but … no thanks.’

  He smiles icily and tries to shut the door, but Curtis turns back at the last minute, sticks his foot against the door frame and hands Dad his card and a sheaf of forms and leaflets.

  ‘Think about it,’ he says. ‘No pressure. You know where to reach me if you change your mind.’

  He steps back just in time to avoid a bunch of broken toes as Dad slams the door. The forms and leaflets go straight in the bin, of course. Much later, when the worst day of my life is finally over and Dad has gone to bed, I fish the papers out and stuff them into my rucksack, even though they are slightly crumpled and have a nasty brown stain from where a tea bag has landed on them.

  I am not about to give up that easily.

  It’s not that my dad doesn’t believe in talent – I think he believes in it too much. He knows that fame and fortune can be very fickle things. It’s just that as far as Dad is concerned, all of the talent in our family belongs to my big brother.

  Ben is a bit of a legend around here. He’s brilliant at sport, football especially … he was playing for Bristol City FC Youth Squad by the time he was fourteen, and Southampton FC scouted him when he was sixteen, but he had an injury and things didn’t work out. It wasn’t majorly serious, but it was enough to wipe out Ben’s chances of a premier-league football career.

  Dad didn’t cope too well when it all went pear-shaped. He couldn’t believe you could play so well and work so hard and have it all end in nothing, and I suppose that has made him suspicious of chances and opportunities and promises of fame and fortune.

  Anyhow, Ben went off to uni to study sports science and said it was the best thing he ever did. He went out every night and partied hard, doing all the stuff he hadn’t done when he was younger because of training so hard, and this summer he graduated with a 2:1 degree and started working full time at the sailing centre. He works hard, but he parties hard too.

  ‘You’re only young once, Shay,’ he likes to tell me. ‘Take my advice – loosen up, little brother. Live a little!’

  I don’t take Ben’s advice, though.

  I haven’t done that since I was five years old. Ben had made a go-cart and he told me I could be the first person to test it out. I felt like the most important boy in the world as I followed him up the hill behind our cottage.

  ‘You have total control,’ he told me. ‘Just yank on the steering rope to turn left or right, or to slow down. You’re so lucky I chose you to be the test driver, Shay! It’s going to be epic!’
>
  It was epic all right. I wedged myself into the driver’s seat and Ben pushed me off down the hill at about a million miles an hour. Three seconds into the ride, the steering rope came off in my hands and, of course, there were no brakes. By the time I got to the bottom of the hill I was yelling like crazy. A wheel came off as I sped across the yard and crashed into the cottage wall, and I fell out of the go-cart and squashed Mum’s flowers and broke my arm in two different places.

  Ben was the first to reach me.

  ‘Don’t tell,’ he hissed into my ear as I lay in a mangled heap beneath the lupins. ‘I’ll get into terrible trouble, and you wouldn’t want that, would you?’

  So I didn’t tell, not even when Dad shouted at me for taking Ben’s go-cart without permission, not even when Mum grumbled about the squashed flower beds, not even when the doctors at A & E prodded about at my broken arm and put a plaster cast on it. I cried a bit because I was only five, remember, and it hurt a LOT. But Ben told me not to make a fuss, so after a while I just bit my lip and tried to be brave.

  ‘How did you manage to get yourself into such a mess, Shay?’ Dad huffed. ‘Why can’t you be more like your brother?’

  That’s the question they’ve all been asking, my whole life pretty much. I wish I knew the answer, but the truth is I am not like Ben. We are chalk and cheese, day and night, sunshine and shadow.

  I sigh, prising the lid off a fresh tin of paint, dipping my brush neatly and stroking the foul-smelling stuff across the upturned hull of yet another dinghy.

  It’s Monday evening, almost two whole days after the legendary moment that didn’t change my life. Things have continued to go downhill. Finch and Nikki headed back to London along with Curtis, and with them leaving it felt like summer was well and truly over, all the fun squeezed out of it. I will miss Finch, miss the freedom of long hot days that blur into lazy nights of music and laughter.

  It’s like Dad has slammed the door on all of that too.

  To top it all, today school started up again. I managed to survive it, but only just – my mind switched off as the teachers began to talk about how important Year Eleven is, how hard we’ll need to study to pass our GCSEs and get that golden ticket to a shining future – it is hard to get worked up about exams right now. What’s the point? I will probably flunk my GCSEs and drop out of school to face a life of slavery at the sailing centre, scraping barnacles off boats and teaching little kids how to kayak.