Fortune Cookie

by Cathy Cassidy

  I start with the basic stage shape that Paddy and Cherry requested, setting out pallets and nailing sheets of hardboard on top. That makes a workable stage, but I add steps made from stacked wooden crates on either side and use pine planks to neaten the front and sides of the stage, and then I give it all a coat of royal blue gloss paint, which looks pretty awesome.

  The project takes all afternoon, and I’m not finished yet; I have plans to add a few extra touches, but I need to let the paint dry first. Paddy ambushes me as I am piling the offcuts into a wheelbarrow to take back up to the storeroom.

  ‘Great stuff, Cookie,’ he says. ‘That’s better than anything I had planned!’

  I shrug. ‘I liked it, sort of switched my brain off for a little bit, and it’s done wonders for my suntan. I have a few ideas for finishing it off, but at least you have a stage now!’

  ‘I think you’ve caught the sun,’ Paddy says. ‘This is a bit of a heatwave, but the forecast predicts storms for later in the week. I hope they’re all gone by Saturday! Anyhow, Cookie, here’s a small thank you for the hard labour. Some pocket money while you’re here, OK?’

  He presses a tenner into my hand, and walks away while I’m still protesting that I don’t want it. ‘Just take it,’ he says over his shoulder. ‘Seriously – you’ve earned it!’

  So now I have a suntan and a tenner to add to my £7.92 life savings. The sudden windfall gives me an idea. Maybe if I sent it to Mr Zhao, the cash could buy me some time and act as a down payment until Dad comes through. If Dad comes through.

  I know £17.92 is not going to pay for the hole in the restaurant ceiling, but surely it’s evidence that I am genuinely sorry. And maybe, by now, Mr Zhao will have calmed down a little and decided against evicting us.

  I find a sheet of plain paper in the caravan and start to write:

  Dear Mr Zhao,

  I am writing to apologize (again) for the damage caused to your ceiling by our bathtub flood. I want you to know it was a total accident, caused by me dropping noodles on my jeans at work the day before, and our washing machine being broken and not having the cash for the launderette. You cannot blame my little sisters, because even though they left the taps running, I was supposed to be in charge and so if you do want someone to blame, I will step up to the mark.

  I am sorry about the lipstick apology. I just wanted to make sure you got the message, but I can see now that a letter would have been better. Sometimes I need to think a bit more before I act, like with the bathtub-washing thing.

  I want you to know that I am in the middle of a secret mission to get the money to fix your restaurant ceiling, but things are not going as fast as I had hoped, so I am sending you £17.92 to be going on with. The rest will follow as soon as I can sort it. Don’t tell my mum about this, because she will definitely not approve, and I don’t want her to know where I am because she will be really upset and worried.

  Please reconsider your plan to evict us, because life in a yurt just doesn’t bear thinking about.

  I honestly didn’t mean it.

  Yours with regret,

  Jake Cooke

  Half an hour later, I’ve cadged an envelope and a first-class stamp from Charlotte, telling her I’ve written a letter home; I leg it down to the village to catch the post.

  15

  A letter to Mr Zhao might buy me time, but I need to step things up a little with Greg Tanberry if my plan is going to have any chance of success. Back at the caravan, I fire off another email.

  Dear Dad,

  I know you are probably weighing up how to answer my emails. I suppose it is hard knowing what to say to the kid you dumped even before he was born, but, trust me, I am not looking for a fight. We have had some very rough times and Mum has struggled to put food on the table, but she is an awesome mum all the same and that more than makes up for you not being there. It’s OK, I forgive you – I even have a plan for how you can make up for ignoring us all those years. Put things right a little bit. I think it would ease your conscience a bit, and it would really help me out of a hole. I need you to stop blanking my emails and reply, and then I can tell you more. Please get in touch. Don’t worry, it’s nothing scary.

  Your long-lost son,

  Jake Cooke

  With every email that fizzes off through the ether to my so-called dad in Australia, my confidence shrinks a little. When I first cooked up this plan, I somehow imagined that Greg Tanberry would jump at the chance of getting to know me and that he’d willingly open his wallet and shell out the money to save my skin. What father wouldn’t?

  Mine, clearly.

  I have never asked him for anything in my whole life, but right now he is my only hope – the only person I know of who has money. Honey says he lives in a posh bungalow in a swish Sydney suburb; he has a swimming pool, a fancy car, designer suits. He could definitely spare a thousand quid to replaster a ceiling and patch a hole in our bathroom floor – let’s face it, he probably spends more than that every year on champagne and caviar. He could cut back, downsize a bit to cider and tinned tuna. I think it’s the least he could do.

  If he would just answer my emails, I know I could persuade him. I could show him that I am not angry or bitter or grasping. I don’t want to turn up on his doorstep; I just need a helping hand. I will keep appealing to his better nature, because eventually he might listen.

  ‘Cookie!’ Honey’s voice rings out through the quiet garden. ‘Dinner time!’

  Up at the house, we dig into veggie lasagne and salad. Once we’ve finished eating, Paddy and Charlotte retreat to put in a late shift in the chocolate workshop while the rest of us pitch in to help with preparations for Saturday’s festival. Honey spreads paints out across the table, hand-lettering a series of signs; Cherry is writing out menu cards for a chocolate cafe to be sited inside the Indian marquee, which is being delivered on Thursday, and Coco and I are making jam-jar lanterns. Coco does the arty bit, collaging the jam jars with patches of torn tissue paper and silver stars brushed on with thinned white glue. I just put a tea light in each and twist a length of thin wire round the jar necks, bending it up to make a hanging loop.

  Skye and Summer are sewing, adjusting the chocolate fairy costumes from the last chocolate festival, adding extra layers of netting and lace and frayed gold taffeta. I can’t help thinking that Maisie and Isla would love them.

  ‘Those are really cool,’ I comment. ‘Like something you’d buy in a shop, only better!’

  ‘Skye’s amazing with fabrics and costumes,’ Summer tells me. ‘She can make something awesome out of a few old scraps. I’m just helping, but Skye’s got real talent – a while ago she helped out with the costumes for a TV film that was shot locally. If in doubt, just remember that Skye’s the awesome twin!’

  ‘No, Summer is!’ Skye argues. ‘You should see her dance, Cookie; she’s amazing. But her real talents are patience and kindness and enthusiasm – the little kids at the dance school really look up to her. She’s a great teacher!’

  ‘You’re both fab,’ Coco chips in. ‘But let’s be clear – I am the sister who is going to change the world, OK? I’ll be world famous for saving the giant panda or stopping global warming or something.’

  ‘Or something is right,’ Honey teases. ‘What about you, Cookie? What’s your talent? What’s your skill?’

  I frown. I am not sure I have a special talent. I like making things and I’m pleased with the way today’s makeshift stage has shaped up, but I am not sure that counts, really. I’d like it to; I’d like to be as interesting and talented as my new half-sisters.

  ‘This chocolate festival is going to be hard work,’ Coco is saying. ‘But should we do something before that? All of us? Show Cookie a bit of the area maybe?’

  Honey raises an eyebrow. ‘Hey – we totally should,’ she says. ‘Tomorrow, maybe? Before things get too crazy around here. A bike ride up to the moors? A picnic? There are loads of places you’d like, Cookie – the smugglers’ caves, the woods, the weir; i
t’ll be cool.’

  Mild panic sets in at the idea of giving up a day to have fun when I know time is so short, but I don’t want to seem ungrateful.

  ‘I haven’t been to any of those places for ages,’ Summer is saying. ‘Alfie would be well up for it too.’

  ‘Lawrie will come,’ Coco says. ‘And Paddy says there are storms coming later in the week, so we should definitely do it tomorrow, before the weather breaks.’

  ‘Cookie?’ Honey asks. ‘What d’you think?’

  ‘OK,’ I say. ‘Why not? I haven’t got a bike, but maybe I could borrow one?’

  ‘Dad would lend you his, I’m sure,’ Cherry cuts in. ‘Shay’s not working tomorrow, so he can come too. I’ll ask him to bring his guitar!’

  ‘Ri-ight,’ Honey says, wrinkling her nose a little. ‘OK. If you want to. Fine.’

  I get the feeling that this is not fine, not by a long way; as if Honey actually wants to exclude Cherry and Shay from the expedition. The others look embarrassed, but Cherry just grins and shrugs and says she’ll text Shay, that it’ll be fun. It’s weird – it’s the second or third time I’ve noticed an edge of awkwardness – frostiness – between Honey and Cherry. I’ve no idea why, but I’m not stupid; I can tell that Honey doesn’t like Cherry, not one bit.

  Later, as Coco and I are stacking the finished jam-jar lanterns in the utility room, I ask how come Honey is so snippy with her stepsister, and she looks at me, amazed.

  ‘Nobody told you?’ she asks. ‘Wow. It’s kind of basic; it’s why we all walk on eggshells whenever Honey is around. She literally cannot stand Cherry.’

  I frown. ‘OK, but why?’

  ‘Honey had a problem with Paddy and Cherry right from the start,’ Coco says. ‘She’s mellowed, definitely, since she got back from Australia; she’s pretty accepting of Paddy now. But it’s more complicated with Cherry.’

  ‘How come?’

  Coco shakes her head. ‘Thing is, three years ago, when Cherry first came to Tanglewood – well, Shay was Honey’s boyfriend. He ditched her for Cherry.’

  ‘Ouch!’ I comment. ‘That’s gotta hurt. But three years? Well, that’s a long time to hold a grudge.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ she says. ‘It’s not like Cherry planned it. I mean, you can’t help who you fall for, can you? Sometimes, I get the feeling that Honey wants to be friends, but she can’t quite let herself move on and forgive. Sucks, right?’

  It really does. I’m amazed that a years-old feud is keeping Honey and Cherry apart; both have been awesome to me, making me feel like part of the family, yet they can’t reach out to each other. Maybe I can talk to Honey and help her to see how crazy this is?

  We head back into the kitchen just as Honey is handing out glasses of chocolate milkshake, and then Paddy and Charlotte come in with a tray of sample chocolates.

  ‘OK,’ Paddy announces. ‘I want you to help me with a taste test, kids. This is the new truffle flavour! I just need to decide between these two variations.’

  The box is passed around the kitchen: some of the truffles have a kind of biscuit-crumb crunch worked through the truffle; some are smooth inside with a biscuit-crumb coating. They are all rich and creamy and totally addictive.

  ‘Go easy, Coco,’ Honey teases. ‘You’re practically inhaling them!’

  ‘I am not!’ Coco argues. ‘They are good, though. What do you think, Cookie?’

  ‘I prefer the ones that are crunchy inside.’ Skye says.

  ‘No, the others, definitely,’ Summer argues. ‘I mean, I wouldn’t eat lots of them because they are so rich, but the crunchy on the outside ones are definitely the best!’

  Paddy is watching me, waiting for my verdict.

  ‘I think so too,’ I say honestly. ‘They’re both awesome, though!’

  ‘That version it is then,’ Paddy says decisively. ‘I think you’re right, but I wanted to give you the last call, Cookie. You’re the inspiration.’

  I frown, confused.

  ‘Dad’s created a truffle for all of us sisters,’ Cherry explains. ‘They’re bestsellers now: mine is called Cherry Crush, and there’s Marshmallow Skye, Summer’s Dream, Coco Caramel, Sweet Honey – all based on our favourite tastes, y’see. So Dad wants to include you, and he’s thinking maybe something like Cookie Crumble for the name. What d’you think?’

  Suddenly there’s a lump in my throat that has nothing to do with chocolate truffles; Paddy, Charlotte and the sisters have made it clear that as far as they are concerned, I am one of the family. I take a deep breath in, feeling a little overwhelmed.

  ‘Nice one,’ I say. ‘Never had a chocolate named after me before.’

  ‘It’s still at the design stage,’ Charlotte says. ‘We want to add one last element before we’re done, but it looks like we’re working along the right lines. Glad you like it!’

  Honey grins. ‘Yeah, I guess this means you’re one of us, right?’

  I guess maybe it does.

  16

  The next day, we meet in the village at ten o’clock; the others study maps and argue about routes and I just hitch up my rucksack, push off from the kerb and follow the crowd. It’s like being in some kind of mad teenage Famous Five adventure; we cycle through tiny lanes all overgrown with honeysuckle hedges, pedalling single file and wobbling dangerously every time a car zooms past. There are a lot of hills and the day is hot, so progress is slow, but the sky is such a vivid blue and the honeysuckle smell is so heady and sweet that nobody really minds.

  There’s a rough track that leads through the woods, and most of us have to walk there anyway, except for Shay and Lawrie who have mountain bikes. The old path down to the smugglers’ caves is closed and unsafe, so we stop for lunch by a fast-flowing river, which has been dammed to create a weir.

  I can’t help being reminded of the disaster at The Paper Dragon, but the lure of the cold water is strong, and soon I’m peeling off my T-shirt to wade in and join the others. Back ashore, the twins are spreading out rugs and checked cloths for the picnic. Everybody has brought something, even me (squashed cheese sandwiches, if you want to know) and when it’s all laid out it looks amazing. There is cold pizza and salad and sausage rolls, crisps, hard-boiled eggs, hummus and falafel; there are cupcakes with multi-coloured frosting and home-made chocolate brownies and fresh fruit salad; all that and more. Alfie lowers big bottles of Coke and lemonade into the icy water to keep them cool, anchored by lengths of string.

  ‘How long have you been with Alfie?’ I ask Summer, helping myself to a sandwich.

  ‘A while,’ she says. ‘He’s OK, y’know. He’s stuck by me through some difficult times.’

  I glance across to where Skye is loafing in the sun with a book. ‘No boyfriend for Skye?’ I ask quietly.

  Summer shrugs. ‘She had a long-distance romance with a boy called Finch around the time I got together with Alfie. Finch’s mum, Nikki, is the producer for the reality TV show – the clipboard lady. Things just fizzled out, I think. They’re still friends; we asked Finch up for the Chocolate Festival, but he says he can’t make it. Probably for the best …’

  Alfie flops down beside us, and the conversation switches to light and easy; we eat and drink and laze in the sun. The buzz of chatter goes on around me, but I feel detached somehow, aloof; I want to relax and enjoy it all, but anxiety about what is going on back at home crowds in and ruins everything. Unable to help myself, I sneak away, perching on a rock beside the river at some distance from the others to check my mobile.

  Surprise surprise, not a single thing from Dad; there’s a text from Mum, though.

  Jake, I know you’re hiding out at Harry’s but we need to talk. I’ve been calling Harry’s flat, but we’re moving on Saturday – please come home!

  I fire off a hasty reply.

  Mum, chill, OK? Everything’s cool, I promise – I just need some time out!

  And there’s a text from Maisie that makes me want to chuck my mobile into the weir; I would, if it weren’t the only way
I have of contacting home and Dad.

  Guess what, Cookie? she has written. Sheddie made us veggie curry last night! It was awesome. I might go veggie too, soon. Today he is teaching us t’ai chi. I think you should give Sheddie a chance, because honestly, Cookie, you would really like him.

  I would not like him, I text back. I may as well just stay in Kitnor, because it looks like you’re getting on fine without me.

  I press SEND, drop the mobile into my trainer and wade into the water, then do a fast front crawl right up to the weir itself. I hate Sheddie; I hate that he is there in our flat, creeping around my sisters, doing all the right things, winning them over. For years we’ve had a shoestring life; we’ve got by, nothing more. Summer holidays were about the swings in the park and lazy mornings loafing around the flat, about bus trips out to Bethnal Green to sunbathe in Gran’s tiny back garden. Now, abruptly, this Sheddie person shows up and suddenly every day’s a party, with tourist trips and fancy dinners and new skills to learn. Sheddie has a hundred tiny ways to worm his way into my sisters’ hearts, but I don’t trust him, not one bit.

  I let the ice-cold water pelt my face and shoulders, taking my breath away; the assault beats my anger down to nothing. When I can’t stand it any more, I let myself float away from the weir, back into the deepest part of the river. I lie on my back, eyes closed, face to the sky, arms wide; I let the sun warm me again, let the soft drift of the river wash away my frustration.

  When finally I am calm enough to wade ashore again, I see Honey sitting on the rocks at the river’s edge, arms hooked round her legs, her whole posture hunched, haunted, sad.

  ‘What’s up?’ I ask, hauling myself on to the bank. ‘You look like I feel.’

  She picks up her iPhone, scans the screen and sighs heavily.

  ‘Boys,’ she tells me. ‘You can never trust them. So much for texting me every day!’

  ‘Boyfriend?’ I query. ‘What’s his name again – Ash?’