Fortune Cookie

by Cathy Cassidy

  ‘That’s him,’ she tells me. ‘He still hasn’t been in touch. Days and days without a single call, a single text!’

  ‘Maybe he lost his phone?’ I suggest.

  She sighs. ‘Yeah, right. He was supposed to be going interrailing through Italy and Spain and France and then maybe coming over to see me here, but he hasn’t mentioned that for ages and now he’s gone all quiet. I can’t help taking it as a sign he’s changed his mind. It’s a while since we saw each other. I can’t blame him if he doesn’t feel the same …’

  ‘More likely he’s just exploring, having fun,’ I say, but that doesn’t seem to be the right answer either.

  ‘Let’s just say I’ve had a run of bad luck with boys,’ Honey says. ‘I’ve a knack for picking out the losers, the ones who hurt me. I got hurt once …’

  ‘Was that Shay?’ I ask, my voice no more than a whisper.

  ‘Who told you?’ she says. ‘Well, I don’t suppose it matters who; it’s not exactly a secret. Everyone knew at the time. It was horrible, Cookie. Felt like everyone was laughing at me, and the worst of it was that I had to share a house with Cherry – can you imagine?’

  ‘Not good,’ I say.

  ‘No, not good at all. I went right off the rails. I wanted to lash out, show people I didn’t care, but the only person I really hurt was myself. I wasn’t about to let it happen again, so I didn’t let anyone get too close – and then I met Ash. I thought I could trust him, but it looks like I was wrong.’

  I shake my head. ‘Honey, this will all work out,’ I tell her. ‘I bet it’s something simple, like a lost phone or a lost charger. Or he’s just got sidetracked with exploring and probably hasn’t even sussed you’re worried.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Honey says. ‘I don’t really think he’d dump me without saying a word. He’s better than that, seriously. It just bugs me, when you’re waiting for a message that never comes. Speaking of which, has Dad mailed you yet?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think not,’ Honey says. ‘I did try to warn you – he’s a bit useless. We really lucked out in the dad department, didn’t we?’

  ‘Looks like,’ I say. ‘At least you’ve got Paddy, though. He’s OK. My Mum has hooked up with this weirdo hippy bloke called Sheddie – he’s all dreadlocks and t’ai chi and he’s trying to make my little sisters go veggie.’

  ‘Nice,’ she says sarcastically. ‘Although, actually, maybe – maybe he is? Coco is veggie, y’know. And Mum does t’ai chi. And dreadlocks … well, that can be a look. Just sayin’.’

  ‘Not you as well,’ I growl. ‘My sisters promised to give him the silent treatment, but he’s got them eating out of his hand. Ugh.’

  ‘What’s wrong with him, exactly?’ Honey asks. ‘Nicks things? Hits people? Snorts drugs? Leaves the toilet seat up when he’s been to the loo?’

  ‘I haven’t actually met him,’ I admit. ‘I don’t think he does those things, but who knows? You don’t understand!’

  ‘Maybe not,’ she says with a shrug. ‘I can see why you’re upset, but – well, sometimes, when parents split, it’s kind of inevitable that some day they are going to get together with someone new. It happened with Mum and Paddy, and it happened with my dad – um, our dad – and Emma. It’s just the way life is. You might not like it –’

  ‘I don’t!’ I argue. ‘And this is different. Paddy’s not some no-hope hanger-on without a penny to his name.’

  ‘Actually, he kind of was,’ Honey remarks. ‘I thought so to start with, anyway. But he’s turned out to be pretty OK; I admit I might have got things a little bit wrong. Maybe this is different, Cookie, but all I am saying is give the bloke a chance; he might be OK. After all, your mum clearly likes him.’

  ‘Yeah. Well, she has pretty dismal taste in men, my dad, for one.’

  ‘Our dad,’ she corrects me. ‘Yeah, can’t really argue with that one. Just – well, try giving him a chance. You might be surprised.’

  ‘Will you ever give Cherry a chance?’ I counter.

  Honey shuts down instantly, her empathy and easy charm gone. Her mouth is a hard line, her eyes cold.

  ‘Never gonna happen, Cookie,’ she says, and walks back to the others.

  17

  The next day, my legs ache from cycling and my shoulders are burnt and peeling from where I sat too long with my T-shirt off and forgot to keep applying suncream. It was an awesome day; after the weir we freewheeled downhill and climbed over rocks and crags to reach the smugglers’ caves, which were majorly spooky and impressive. On the way home, we saw a herd of Exmoor ponies on the moor and stopped off for chips and cans of pop in a touristy village not far from Kitnor.

  If my little sisters are getting a holiday in London, then I am definitely getting one here; but I am making zero progress in getting my dad to communicate. It’s a pity I can’t get myself over to Sydney, Australia, and turn up on his doorstep, because I think he might have a tougher job ignoring me then. Although he has ignored me my whole life, so maybe not.

  Dear Dad-I’ve-Never-Met,

  I am trying to stay hopeful. I am telling myself that my emails to you are going into a spam folder or something; I am telling myself that you are not actually blanking me. You wouldn’t do that, right? You are my dad, flesh and blood, and although we have never met there is still a link between us that neither one of us can change. You might not want to be my dad, but you are. I might not want to be your son, but I am. We are both stuck with it.

  The only other thing I can think of is that you don’t believe me. Maybe you think I am an imposter, a scammer, a conman. If that is the case, then I will attach some evidence that might convince you: a photo of me, taken yesterday. I may be squinting a little bit because it was very sunny, but I think you will see that I look very like you all the same. At least, I look very like you in the old pictures I have seen. You are probably a bit different now.

  I am not trying to con you, I promise, but I do need your help. If you have a heart, please reply and I will explain.

  Yours in desperation,

  Jake Cooke

  I ignore the new day’s batch of texts and voicemails from Mum and snarl over a text from Maisie that tells me Sheddie is taking them swimming today.

  Instead of brooding, I decide to finish the festival stage. I drag a whole heap of driftwood branches from the beach up the rickety cliff steps and fix two of them in the back corners to hold a backdrop – I haven’t quite worked that bit out yet, but I know I want this to look like a real stage and not some handmade effort. I want it to be cool. The remaining branches I build into a crazy twiggy archway that curves over the front of the stage to frame the performers; it takes forever to construct, but it looks amazing.

  It’s hot work; the heatwave seems to have ramped up a notch today, and even the air feels sticky and oppressive. As the morning wears on, some of the sisters appear to check out what’s going on.

  ‘Pretty cool,’ Summer says, surveying the work in progress. ‘It looks amazing, but the arch would be even better all draped with fairy lights.’

  ‘I know where there’s a spare lot,’ Coco offers.

  ‘Awesome,’ I say. ‘I’m going to make some kind of backdrop, but I’m not sure if it should be hardboard or something else.’

  ‘What about a painted sheet?’ Skye suggests. ‘We could paint it and drape it between the branches. There are a whole load of old sheets in the attic, if you want one.’

  Half an hour later, the four of us are working together. Coco brings a wheelbarrow of half-used paint pots and mismatched brushes from the stable storeroom; she starts painting stars and crescent moons on the royal blue background of the stage sides while I paint spiralling ivy tendrils on the tall branches at the back of the stage.

  ‘You’re arty as well as practical,’ Skye comments approvingly, looking up from the white cotton sheet she has spread across the grass. Summer is neatly painting a big curving rainbow on this while Skye maps out the words Tanglewood Chocolate Fe
stival in curly, quirky letters. It looks amazing, especially once we’ve filled in the letters with black paint and tacked the backdrop in place. Working with the sisters is fun and makes me feel like a proper part of the family; it’s a good feeling.

  Draping the fairy lights across the arch is the final touch, and I balance on a stepladder and stretch over to make sure everything is as perfect as it can be.

  ‘Mum and Paddy will love this,’ Summer tells me. ‘It looks amazing!’

  ‘Way better than anything Paddy had planned,’ Skye agrees. ‘It’s a piece of art!’

  Coco frowns and wrinkles her nose. ‘What if it rains, though?’ she asks. ‘There are supposed to be storms later, right? The fairy lights will get wet and then they won’t work. Should we cover everything in tarpaulin? There are a few big sheets of plastic down in the storeroom.’

  ‘It’s too hot for a storm,’ I argue. ‘Stifling, really –’

  ‘That’s exactly how it feels when a storm is brewing,’ Skye tells me. ‘Sort of sticky and oppressive. Coco could be right.’

  So in the end we hide the finished stage under draped tarpaulins, and I like the idea because I want to see the look on Paddy’s face when it’s unveiled.

  After that, the sisters drift back up to the house to help with the baking for Saturday’s chocolate cafe. I help in the chocolate workshop with Paddy and Cherry for a while, apron on, my hair held back by a spotted bandana, pirate style. Paddy is working long hours now to produce enough chocolate stock and to showcase the new flavours he’s been working on; he shows me a new machine he has invested in, a kind of electrical engraving needle that allows you to inscribe even the tiniest words or delicate patterns into chocolate.

  ‘We’re making chocolate fortunes for the festival,’ Cherry explains. ‘Want to have a try?’

  It turns out that I’m too clumsy to write or draw anything very useful with the engraver, but Cherry is neat and steady, using a magnifying glass, and Paddy goes off to fetch a tray of tiny moulded heart discs for her to work on. I write out a list of fortune words, the kind of thing you mind find on a Love Heart sweet. It’s harder than you think. ‘Smile’, ‘hug me’, ‘stay strong’, ‘be kind’, ‘make someone laugh’, ‘share’, ‘be brave’, ‘chill’ and ‘believe in magic’ all make the cut; ‘always answer emails’, ‘never wash your jeans in the bath’ and ‘beware of falling ceilings’ do not. I guess that’s fair enough.

  As we’re working, Honey barges in, her smile a mile wide, yesterday’s coolness forgotten. Honey may have a short fuse but she doesn’t hold a grudge for long – except with Cherry, that is.

  ‘Quick, Cookie!’ she says. ‘I’ve just invented something totally amazing and I want you to taste it for me. I think it would be perfect for the festival. Come and see, and tell me what you think; am I a genius, or am I a genius?’

  We head across to the house, which is just as busy as the chocolate workshop. In the conservatory, Sandy, Lawrie and Coco are folding printed card into little boxes ready to be filled with chocolates on Saturday; in the kitchen, Charlotte and the twins are mixing up enough chocolate fridge cake to feed a small army.

  Honey’s invention stands at the end of the kitchen table – a tall glass of layered milkshake with a strawberry skewered on the edge of the rim; enough to make anyone’s mouth water.

  ‘Taste it,’ she says, handing the glass to me. ‘Tell me what you think. I might call it a strawberry chocolate cream smoothie. Or should I call it a milkshake? Or a frappé? What sounds better?’

  ‘Milkshake,’ Summer says.

  ‘Smoothie,’ Charlotte argues. ‘It’s great, though, whatever you call it!’

  I take a sip of the drink. It’s smashed-up strawberries at the bottom, then a layer of milk chocolate shake, then one of dark, with a topping of cream and grated chocolate. It tastes awesome.

  ‘Don’t care what you call it,’ I tell her. ‘It’s amazing!’

  Honey glows with pride. ‘I knew you’d like it!’ she says. ‘Paddy? What do you think? Too heavy on the dark chocolate? Just right? I spent ages trying to do a peanut butter and banana layer, but the mushed-up strawberries work loads better – and everyone likes strawberries, right?’

  Paddy takes a sip of the concoction and nods his approval. ‘Spot on, just the right balance. I’ll have to get you designing and inventing in the chocolate workshop, Honey!’

  ‘Thanks, Paddy,’ she says.

  Cherry takes a sip and gives her stepsister the thumbs up too. ‘Cookie’s right, it’s out of this world!’

  Honey smiles sweetly at this, then turns her back on Paddy, Charlotte and Summer. ‘Like I care what you think,’ she says to Cherry under her breath.

  It’s so quick, so quiet that I almost miss it – but I don’t miss it, and the spite takes my breath away. Cherry sighs and withdraws quietly, heading back to the chocolate workshop; the others, oblivious to Honey’s barbed comment, decide to take a tea break.

  ‘What?’ Honey mouths at me. ‘Just being honest!’

  I shake my head, unable to meet Honey’s eye, but she shrugs and smiles like she doesn’t care at all, and I decide to head back to the workshop too.

  ‘What’s the big deal?’ she hisses, following me outside and tugging at my elbow. ‘I never said I was a nice person, did I? I’m not, Cookie, but I’m honest, at least. I don’t like her and I don’t understand what you see in her.’

  ‘I see someone like us, Honey,’ I snap. ‘Someone who needs a family, needs to belong. How come you can’t see it?’

  ‘She doesn’t belong here,’ Honey argues. ‘She wormed her way in, took everything she wanted from right under our noses – and she fooled everyone. She’s fooled you too!’

  I break away from Honey’s grip.

  ‘You fooled me,’ I say harshly. ‘I thought you were better than this.’

  This time, I’m the one to walk away.

  ‘How come you don’t react?’ I ask Cherry, later, up by the gypsy caravan. ‘How come you let her treat you like dirt?’

  Cherry shrugs. ‘She has her reasons,’ she says. ‘What can I say? I hurt her – I didn’t mean to, but I did. She doesn’t like me. I’m kind of used to it now.’

  ‘Doesn’t it upset you?’

  Cherry blinks. ‘Of course it does. It’s not always this bad. I think she’s hurt that we’re friends – a bit jealous maybe.’

  ‘What, just because we talk sometimes?’ I ask, incredulous.

  ‘I think so,’ Cherry says with a sigh. ‘The thing about Honey is … she’s not as tough as she makes out, not by a long way.’

  ‘I’d noticed.’

  ‘I understand, in a funny way,’ Cherry says. ‘I wish she didn’t feel like that, but I try not to let it get to me. I just keep hoping that some day she’ll give me a chance.’

  I think about that long after Cherry has gone: chances given, chances not given, chances taken, chances lost. How are you supposed to know which to give, which not?

  18

  I’m in bed by ten, my arms and legs still aching from yesterday’s cycle expedition and my stage-building exertions, but I can’t sleep; the night is too hot, too sticky to breathe. I push back the patchwork quilt and wrap myself in a sheet instead, but the caravan feels like a sauna. Abruptly, my mobile begins to buzz. Groaning, I pick it up and see that the call is from Maisie. I scramble to sit upright in the caravan bunk.

  ‘Hey, Maisie,’ I say. ‘Everything OK?’

  But on the other end of the phone my little sister is crying. ‘Oh, Cookie, it’s all gone wrong. Mum knows you’re not at Harry’s. Or Mitch’s. She knows you’ve run away!’

  ‘How?’ I ask, my heart thumping. ‘What happened? Don’t cry, Maisie – shhh. And calm down. Someone will hear you!’

  ‘I’m on the top bunk,’ Maisie snuffles. ‘It makes me feel close to you, now you’re not here any more. Isla’s asleep and I’m hiding under the duvet with the bedroom door shut. Nobody can hear me.’

  Slowly, Maisi
e’s sobbing subsides and I hear her blowing her nose, snuffling slightly.

  ‘It wasn’t me that told,’ she says at last, her voice steadier now. ‘I didn’t, I promise.’

  ‘Just tell me, Maisie. What happened?’

  There’s a big intake of breath at the other end of the line, and my little sister starts to speak. ‘Mr Zhao came up to see Mum this evening. He had a letter, and he was showing it to Mum. He gave her some money from out of the envelope and Mum started crying – I don’t get it, Cookie, but Mum was really upset and Mr Zhao was all sad too, saying he was sorry you’d got the wrong end of the stick and of course he would never evict us. He couldn’t understand why you would think such a thing. What does evict mean?’

  ‘Throw people out of their flat,’ I say numbly. ‘But I heard him say it. At least, I think I did! And he was so angry!’

  ‘I don’t think he’s angry any more,’ Maisie says.

  If anyone is angry now, I think it’s me. I’ve blown it all, with a stupid letter that was meant to buy me time. Instead, it’s ruined everything. I didn’t imagine Mr Zhao would show the letter to Mum. I didn’t think they were even speaking any more.

  ‘What happened then?’ I ask.

  ‘Well, Mum said that she was leaving anyway, that she was sorry to let Mr Zhao down at such a difficult time, but that we were going to Millford. She introduced Mr Zhao to Sheddie and they shook hands and Sheddie said he’d be happy to help with any repairs that might be going on, even though he wasn’t a proper carpenter or anything. But I think he could do it, Cookie. He can do all kinds of things.’

  ‘Shut up about Sheddie!’ I growl. ‘Then what?’

  Maisie sighs. ‘After Mr Zhao had gone, Mum called Harry again. Harry’s mum answered and said she hadn’t seen you for a week or so; so then she called Mitch, and he tried to say you were there, but his dad came on the line and said you weren’t, and that they hadn’t seen you for ages. And Sheddie said we should call the police, but Mum got really upset then and said that they couldn’t, that if they did the social workers would say she was a bad mother and take you into care.’