Truly Madly Awkward

by Beth Garrod

  3)OMG. Please don’t let that be a new cheek spot I can feel.

  I picked up my phone, my reflection in the screen confirming I didn’t have a spot. I had two. And I’d overslept by half an hour. I jumped in the shower and pulled on the nearest bits of uniform I could find (while shouting at Jo that this is why floordrobes saved time).

  By the time I got downstairs, prep for the evening was fully underway. The final decorations were being loaded into the cars and Mum was ironing her dress at double speed, getting her full-on fret on. Apparently the sculptor of today’s big centrepiece – a huge dog ice sculpture that Shay had said would be perfect for press to write about – had got stuck in traffic.

  I made a joke about ice dogs dying in hot cars.

  Jo shook her head to tell me this was unwise.

  Mum looked like she might cry.

  So I did the most reassuring thing I could think of, and made everyone toast and Marmite. I then realized the next best thing would probably be to offer some help, and carried out the last few boxes, before heading to school.

  Although it was still terrifying being there (and I’d developed the nickname Helican Bellican) the excitement for Mum’s big day got me through. I’d only told Tegan, Rach and Mikey about GADAC, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t proud. It just meant I wasn’t necessarily ready for the world to join the dots between me, my mother, and innovation in dog puddings.

  Right on time, Jo picked me up from school (with special guest, Mumbles, on the backseat). We had to have the windows down, it was such a scorching September day – excellent for ice cream demand. Thanks, sun. Jo let me jump out with Mumbles while she found a parking spot. And when I stepped round the corner and saw the shop for the first time, I couldn’t help but gasp. It was suddenly SO REAL. All big and official – a freshly painted Give A Dog A Cone sign above the door. Sparkling clean windows and upright freezers stacked with shelves and shelves of stock.

  I’d never had butterflies from a building before. Mum had done an amazing job.

  I set foot inside as slowly as I could, trying to etch this first time in my memory. I was tempted to think it was a seminal moment, but I always worry I get the definition of that word wrong, and it’s actually something to do with man fluid.

  Mumbles trotted in behind me. I tugged her lead, trying to encourage her to symbolically strut, and mark the historical moment from a dog/consumer perspective. Sadly she totally missed the point and did a last-minute dive for some rubbish, walking in sideways, chewing on a plastic bag which then blew over her head.

  Mum’s face lit up when she saw us. She walked over and gave my hand a squeeze – neither of us needing words to say how cool this was. She looked around, smiling to herself. It was only a little room, but it was such a big dream for her.

  It was a beautiful moment.

  Which lasted 0.2 seconds until Jo burst in, and along with her came one-and-a-half hours of the most frantic:

  •Lifting

  •Unpacking

  •Sweating

  •Heaving

  •Thinking there was a gas leak

  •Realizing there was – and it came from our dog

  •Almost crying at what was left to be done

  •Actually crying when Shay’s stiletto heel landed on my foot

  •Making way too many jokes about feeling paw-ly

  •Making even more about fetch-ing boxes

  •And throwing in a final flurry of ones about being hounded by the press.

  But it was worth it, as an hour before the grand opening, give or take final tweaks, it looked exactly as Mum had described it way back when she was planning the whole thing. And this was no mean feat (or “meatfeast” as Rach always said) as Mum had been aiming for “the world’s biggest gold and glittery tribute to all things dog and ice cream”. It was fit for the Queen’s corgis (if they liked hanging out in eighties discos). The pièce de résistance was the box mounted in the middle. The sculpture. It had arrived in the nick of time. It may have cost a zillion pounds and caused Mum a mini heart attack but it was increds. The ice-dog looked totally lifelike (if dogs were see-through) and was so ginormous it made a Great Dane look like a Moderately Small-Sized Dane. It stood in a special freezer display box Mum had hired and was happily licking at a giant cone (with real GADAC ice cream, and dog choc flake in it!). It even had a leather collar around its neck in GADAC-logo green, and frozen flowers around its feet. It was paw-fect. So paw-fect people were already trying to take pics through the window. To keep the reveal for the big unveiling, Mum closed up the gold curtains she’d made, hiding it away. Shay was right: the press pics were going to look great.

  I gave Mum a big double thumbs up. “Feeling good?”

  She was deffo nervous as she kept doing blinks that were too big for her face and calling both Jo and I Jella (her combo daughter name she uses when she’s distracted).

  “How could I not be? You guys have been WONDERFUL. And Brenda just sent me a video of her lighting a success candle for us. What more could I want?”

  She pointed at my camera around my neck. “You still OK to be official photographer?”

  I nodded. “And official social-media producer? Sure am.”

  Although my phone battery was dangerously low. With a shout of, “One sec,” I dived behind the counter to charge both my camera and phone. Couldn’t take any chances today. But Shay and her hair straighteners and iPads seemed to have taken every socket. I gestured to the problem. Shay was on her mobile, but pointed at her laptop plug. She looked kind of cross I had to switch it out, but I had a job to do.

  When I turned back, Mum was still shaking her head, trying to take it all in.

  “It’s going to be barking mad having actual press down here…” She nudged Shay. “All thanks to this one.” But Shay brushed her away, annoyed at being disturbed as she was talking. So it wasn’t just me she was being mardy with. Must be important; the only words I could catch were, “red carpet” and “designer look”. But it didn’t matter cos Mum had started to get a hazy look in her eye.

  “Imagine… Mary Fisher… My name in lights?!”

  Now wasn’t the time to point out newspapers tended to go with ink, rather than torches—

  Oh.

  My.

  Frozen dog.

  S.T.R.

  SUDDEN. TERRIFYING. REALIZATION.

  Press meant thousands of people reading about the business. Which was great. But it also meant thousands of people reading about my mum. Who was currently wearing dog-ears on her head. And was related to me.

  “And er, just to check. Will you be using your real name?”

  She gave me a weirded out look. And a “Yessssss” that went surprisingly high at the end.

  “And your real, er, face?”

  She slapped my bum for the second time in a minute.

  “I’m going to pretend you didn’t ask that, daughter who I fed from my actual breast for eight months.”

  Inward spew.

  “Bells, move the conversation on before she starts talking about how her waters broke in a shoe shop,” Jo shouted from behind the counter, where she was stretching to pin up some bone bunting.

  This time it was Jo’s turn to get a Shay glare, as an annoyed Shay stepped outside to protect the poor ears of whoever she was speaking to.

  “Sobacktotoday.” The quicker I spoke, the more likely I could herd Mum on to a new topic. “Which flavour do you think’s gonna be the top seller?”

  I picked a tub up. It was colder than I thought (I clearly don’t understand the concept of ice).

  But before Mum could answer the room filled with “oooh”s (Rachel), “ahhh”s (Tegan), a “pretty dope” (Mikey) and some low-level growling (hopefully Mikey’s sausage dog, Hamster). Like knights in shining armour/battered trainers my friends had arrived to help. I grinned as they told Mum how amazing it all looked (Tegan, Rach and Mikey) and licking Mumbles’ face (Hamster). I was pretty proud this was the kind of event that had a sepa
rate guest list just for dogs.

  With only forty minutes left till the opening, they quickly joined in helping with the finishing touches, Jo leading the charge. Rach was assigned the role of chatting to anyone who stopped to look in, giving out bone-shaped flyers, and telling them what GADAC was all about. As she’d arrived with her outfit already on – tiny A-line skirt and tucked in baggy Helicans T-shirt – she headed straight outside to start.

  The rest of us took turns to get changed in the tiny loo. Jo had chosen a black shift dress and Doc Martens shoes, as she “didn’t want to take any attention away from Mum”. Shay obvs hadn’t got that memo and had gone for a sequinned catsuit. Her selfie of it already had over three-hundred likes. Tegan looked her normal super-stylish self, wearing a yellowy-orange shirt dress I could never pull off, but that looked totally designer on her (as much as she complained throughout, Mikey took at least seven pics of just her cos she looked so great). On the flipside, Mikey had borrowed his dad’s suit jacket so just looked like he’d shrunk.

  Annoyingly, I’d forgotten to pack anything, so put on the dungarees Tegan had arrived in and brushed my hair a lot. I didn’t even have time for make-up as I spent the final minutes trying to pick out a blob of bubblegum from Mumbles’ teeth that she’d accidentally chomped on when chewing her way through a bin bag. It was a three-man job as whenever she huffed, she’d make tiny bubbles that freaked her out so much she fled across the floor. When Mikey got together with Tegan, I really don’t think this was how he pictured spending their evenings. But the same could be said about when Tegan became friends with me. Thank goodness toddler Tegan didn’t have better judgment.

  When seven p.m. – the official opening time – ticked round, Jo beckoned us all together. Pep-talk time. A silence filled the shop as we huddled together, arm over shoulder, like a weirdly dressed rugby team.

  My sister cleared her throat. “Before we officially open, I just wanted to say – on behalf of Fam Fisher – a big thank you to all of you.” Mum nodded, but also looked a bit like she might cry. I prodded Jo to hurry it along. “And may this evening be a HUGE success!” We all whooped. “So here’s to Give a Dog a Cone…” (More yee-haw-ing), “and an amazing laugh night…” (more hell-yeah-ing), “and most importantly, MY MUM.” Pardon, Jo? I coughed. “OUR MUM!”

  With shouts and high-fives and hugs, my friends, Shay, my sister and I bundled Mum into the middle, and in a mess of arms and squashed faces, had a seven-person hug.

  And with that, it was time for Give A Dog A Cone to open. We spread out across the shop, put our game faces on, and watched nervously as Mum opened the doors up to the public for the very first time.

  CHAPTER

  ELEVEN

  I knew the launch was going to be busy, but I didn’t know just how busy. And by the massive grin on Mum’s face, neither did she. The crowd was so big people were having to mingle on the street. #Blessed. There were loads of dogs too, most of them from the Bark Shelter – the dog charity Mum was putting some of the profits towards. #Woof. The volunteers kept describing Mum as a legend, but it was hard to chat when at their feet were some of the cutest fluffballs on four legs I’d ever seen.

  An hour later, when the time for Mum’s speech arrived, the room was buzzing. Rach and I handed out samples of ice cream to all the dogs, and Shay and Jo handed out glasses of Champagne to all the non-dogs. The press pushed forward ready to capture the grand unveiling.

  Mum looked relatively collected on the outside (well, as collected as someone can who is wearing dog ears and a bone necklace) but I knew she hated public speaking, so gave her the BSL for G and L, which was our fam thing for good luck.

  She didn’t need it. She was amazing. Telling the story of how the idea came about, Paula the vet’s advice, her big dreams for the business, why she was supporting the Bark Shelter, and how grateful she was to her daughters for all the support (me! I got a shout out!). When I spotted Jo wiping away a tear, I zoomed in as hard as I could to capture this beautiful moment (/get any blackmail material for later). The entire speech went without a hiccup (give or take two from Mumbles). As I clicked away taking pics of all the important people looking impressed and Mum looking like she was in complete control, I was convinced that anyone who hadn’t been sure that dogs needed ice cream before definitely had a new opinion now. And a new respect for the woman who had made it all happen.

  Mum got the biggest round of applause and, looking relaxed for the first time in weeks, stepped across to the gold curtains, inviting the local mayor to come up. It was time to use the special ceremonial scissors (aka the ones from our kitchen drawer I’d wiped clean with loo roll) to unveil the ice sculpture, and declare Give A Dog A Cone officially “open”.

  I pushed myself alongside the professional photographers, who had formed a tight circle at the front.

  The mayor clinked her medal against her glass, the loud ting stopping the chatter.

  Mum cleared her throat.

  “Thanks again for all coming down. It means the WORLD.” She smiled at the mayor, whose blank expression suggested she could do these things with her eyes closed (but would keep them open, or she would look weird in official photos).

  “The pleasure’s all mine. Thank YOU for having me!” The mayor engaged auto-smile. Mum gave her a playful nudge on the arm, but as she was over-excited, sort of punched her. The mayor’s smile slipped a touch.

  “Anyway,” the smile programmed itself back into place, “on with the proceedings. With this…” Mum handed her the scissors, “erm, curtain opening, I declare,” she bunched the ribbon up in her hand, “Give A Dog A Cone”, she cut and yanked the curtain, “OFFICIALLY OPEN!”

  Flashes went off. A big “ooooh” went up from the guests. A beaming Mum stepped forward to pose in front of the sculpture in all its glory.

  And there it was. Breathtaking.

  The clicks of the camera sped up.

  Mum’s jaw dropped even more than I’d hoped. The mayor looked like she’d never seen anything like it. And so did everyone else.

  But my camera had stopped.

  Because behind the curtain was Mum’s dog sculpture.

  Entirely and completely melted.

  A glass box full of murky, sludgy water: floppy bits of flowers swirling around, a sinister collar clinging on the side, and small chocolate flake logs bobbing on the surface.

  The crowd didn’t know whether to laugh or clap, not sure if this was the intended big reveal.

  Was Mum going to cry?!

  The only two mammals who knew what to do were Mumbles and Hamster, and they started licking at the puddle that was seeping out, tails a-wagging.

  The cameras were relentlessly capturing every second. I looked at Shay. She must know what to do?! But she was currently sliding in the wet splodge as she sidestepped quickly away.

  However, someone else was calmly stepping right into the space Shay had left.

  “So, everyone…” confidently Jo stopped right in front of the freezer, blocking the hideous sight. “Obviously there’s been a bit of technical hitch.” How was she acting as cool as a cucumber?! (Which, sadly, was a lot cooler than the melted dog.) “So, carry on having a look round, follow us on social media, and feel free to ask any questions… On behalf of our mum, Mary, and everyone at Give A Dog A Cone … thanks for coming!”

  She finished with a huge smile and a clap enthusiastic enough that, slowly, the room joined in, a mixture of entertained and embarrassed.

  But it was too late – the atmosphere was ruined and Mum was frozen in horror at the un-frozen blob that was meant to be the centrepiece of the night. People couldn’t leave quick enough.

  It was like a joy Hoover (Joover) had sucked the good vibes right out of the room.

  I was glad people were leaving – even my friends. Mum was heartbroken, and fixing that was a family-only thing.

  I put my arm round her. I’d only seen her cry twice, and didn’t want to see it ever again.

  “Forget the final
e. Forget it. It was a great evening – everyone was SO into what you’ve done here. I PROMISE.”

  She smiled with only the left side of her mouth. “I just don’t know how this could have happened. The freezer was working fine?!”

  To try and cheer her up, I showed her all the good photos from earlier in the evening. But it didn’t help. Nor did Jo’s equally enthusiastic attempts – and Shay had headed and Shay had headed off with her press mates to do “damage limitation” (even though I swore I heard them say they were going to Pizza Express). Quietly we began to pack up to head home.

  But as Mum went to flick off the lights she stopped dead.

  Then turned to me, her face like thunder – even though thunder is technically invisible.

  She had some wires in her hand.

  “What… Is… This?” Her voice was all angry and cracky. This was serious. She pushed the leads nearer to me. “Bella?!”

  I shrugged. “My camera charger?”

  She dropped it flat on the floor.

  What was the big deal?

  My brain spun. Before jerking a halt.

  It was me. I’d unplugged the freezer to charge my battery.

  I’d ruined everything.

  CHAPTER

  TWELVE

  It wasn’t just the launch I’d ruined.

  I’d also ruined the next morning, when the articles went up online about Give A Dog A Cone and its, to quote, “RUFF START”. I was properly in the doghouse. Shay said all press was good press, but I wondered if it still applied when it’s pics of people laughing at what looked like a floating chocolate poo, my mum standing proudly beside it?

  I ruined the afternoon too, when newspapers came out saying the same thing. And two days after the launch, despite Mum spending every hour there, the shop had only had four customers in total – and three of them had been Mikey, Hamster and Mash.

  I felt awful. Like Grim Reaper levels of grimness. If I was a tennis tournament I’d be Grimbledon. Not helped by the fact Jo had gone back to uni and I’d had to do all the cooking for Shay and myself, meaning the only vegetables we’d consumed since the launch was corn (which was in the Wotsits I’d served up with some toast).