“Nor us,” Millie says.
“We’re going to the States in August, but that’s forever away,” Jamie says, to groans of envy from the rest of us. He is so lucky. He’s going to Florida with his parents, and they’re visiting the theme parks and the Everglades. It sounds amazing.
“I’m heading to Cornwall for a bit to stay with Mum,” Danny says.
“Sounds good,” Hannah says, setting down the drinks and sliding the cakes across the table to us. “Enjoy.”
“I can’t believe you guys get to go away and we don’t,” I grumble as I stab a huge chunk of Danny’s chocolate cake with my fork. “It’s so unfair.”
“It’s not our fault you’re stuck here,” Jamie says, sucking half his smoothie in a single gulp. “You guys usually go on holiday, why not this year?”
“Too broke,” I say. “The Puttock Emergency Budget plan is still in effect, ergo no Puttock can spend more than ten pence without Dad’s express permission. And he says there’s no cash for holidays.”
“Why aren’t you going away, Mills?” Danny asks.
Millie shuffles uncomfortably. “Dad couldn’t get the time off.”
“He’s working loads at the moment, isn’t he?” Jamie says.
“He says he needs the extra hours since Mum lost her job.”
“Well, that sucks,” Jamie says. “No holidays for the girls, then.”
“Yeah, and what are we supposed to do while you guys are away?” I say.
“I’m sure you’ll think of something to keep yourselves entertained,” Danny says, popping a piece of chocolate flake into my mouth. “We won’t be gone for long. And we’re not going at the same time, anyway.”
“I still don’t think it’s fair,” I say.
“Ah, but you get the fun of a sexy Italian staying with you,” Jamie says, grinning wolfishly. He dodges out of the way, laughing hard, as Millie aims a thump at his thigh.
“She’s not Italian!” Millie reminds him.
“When’s she coming?” Danny asks.
“Next week sometime,” I say.
We eat. We drink. We chat. Then Danny flips his wrist over to look at his watch. “I need to get back,” he says.
“I have to go too,” Jamie says. “I’m meeting the lads in the park for a kick-about.”
“See you,” Millie and I chorus as the boys clatter out of the café.
“Want to come back to mine and hang out?” I ask Millie.
“Sure,” she says. “I’ll text Mum and tell her to pick me up from there instead.”
Millie produces a pack of jelly babies and starts munching away happily as we walk back. As we approach my house, I stare in confusion at the parking space to the side of it.
Because there’s a massive caravan sitting on it.
And I mean massive.
“I didn’t know you had a caravan,” Millie says.
“We don’t,” I say. “I have no idea what that’s doing there.”
When I open the front door, I can hear Harry screaming with excitement as she runs out of the kitchen to greet us. This in itself is pretty alarming, as Harry is never pleased I’m around.
“Did you see it, Suzy?” she whoops.
“The caravan? I could hardly miss it, could I? Did you pull it out of that magic hat of yours or something?”
“Ha ha,” Harry says. “No. It’s ours!”
“What’re you talking about, idiot child? We don’t own a caravan.”
“We do now, and don’t call your sister an idiot,” Mum says, following Harry out from the kitchen. “Hi, Millie, good to see you.”
“Mum, have you been shopping again? That must’ve cost a fortune. Dad’s going to kill you.”
“I didn’t buy it. I won it. Can you believe it?”
“You won a caravan?”
Mum nods happily. “They delivered it about ten minutes ago. Apparently they rang about it during the week, but I didn’t get the message.”
“It’s not my fault I forgot to tell you,” Harry says. “And all they said was they were dropping something off. I didn’t know it’d be a caravan, did I?”
“The fact they were calling from Caravans4U might have been enough of a clue for most people, but never mind,” Mum says.
“What are we going to do with a caravan?” I ask.
“We’re going to go on a wonderful holiday,” Mum says, beaming. “Camping is great fun. I used to go all the time with my parents when I was younger.”
Am I actually going to be forced to stay in that thing, for days at a time, mere centimetres away from my parents and sisters?
Oh dear Lord. What a horrifying thought.
Outside I hear several cross expletives before Dad charges through the front door.
“Who’s left that bloody caravan on the drive?” he fumes. “Can you believe the nerve of some people? A chuffing caravan, of all things. Do you know which of the neighbours it was, Jen?”
“It’s ours,” Mum says.
“Ours?” Dad says, freezing on the spot. “What are you talking about, ours?”
“I won it!” Mum tells him proudly.
“You won it?” Dad says.
“Yes, from one of my magazines,” Mum says.
“So that thing actually belongs to us and we have to keep it?”
“Yes!” Mum says.
“Oh God,” Dad groans, rolling his eyes upwards. “What do we want with a caravan, for heaven’s sake? Can you send it back? No, wait. I suppose we could always sell it. The money would come in handy.” His face brightens. “I’ll go and see what kind of price those things go for on eBay.”
“Dad, no,” Harry says. “I want to keep it.”
“I’m not selling it, Chris,” Mum says. “Not until we’ve used it at least once, anyway. Just to try it, and see if we like it. It’ll be a cheap holiday. You’re the one who’s always banging on about us saving money, saying that we can’t afford to go anywhere. Well, now we can. And soon.”
Dad wanders off, muttering darkly.
“Knock, knock,” calls Clare. She walks over to Mum and kisses her cheek. Sometimes it blows my mind that they’re such good friends. They’re so different.
Clare isn’t exactly what you’d call a traditional mother. She’s really cool, with cropped-short hair and wears super fash clothes. Each of her ears is pierced a billion times and she accessorises with large funky jewellery and these gorgeous floaty scarves. It’s easy to see where Millie’s love of colour and fashion come from. She’s also got loads of amazing stories about ghosts she’s seen and reads tarot cards.
I regularly have serious mum-envy.
Clare’s usually round and smiley, but looking at her now, she’s slimmer than normal. She must be on a diet. And she looks kind of tired, with these bags under her eyes I’ve not noticed before.
“It’s been too long,” Mum says, releasing her from the embrace.
“Ah, you know what it’s like,” Clare says, shaking her head. “I’ve been job hunting, which is a full-time job in itself.”
Mum makes a sympathetic face. “How’s it going?”
“Don’t ask. The market’s completely dead. Sorry I’m early, Millie, but we need to pick up Sophie from her friend’s house.”
Millie ignores her.
“How’s Martin?” Mum asks. “We should meet up soon.”
“He’s always at work,” Clare says, shrugging dismissively. “Anyway, what’s new with you? I see you’re getting all geared up for a holiday.” She nods out of the window. “I didn’t know you were caravanners.”
“We’re not,” Mum says. “Well, not yet.” She goes into the speech about how she won the caravan, holidays to remember, yada yada.
“You’re so lucky,” Clare says. “I’d kill for any kind of break at the moment, even one on a campsite.”
“Well, why don’t you come with us?” Mum says. “The caravan’s a six berth, we’ve got plenty of room. We’d need to put the girls in a tent, but that wouldn’t be a problem. We’re not sure
when we’re going yet – we need to find a campsite – but the offer’s there if you want it.”
Maybe my sanity can be saved if Millie comes along too. I look over at her, wide-eyed with hope.
“Well, Sophie’s going away to summer school for a month, so she wouldn’t be coming. And there’s no way Martin would take time off,” Clare says. “But we could go. What do you think, Millie?”
Millie and I exchange an excited glance.
“I’ll chat to Martin, but in principle, yes, that sounds great, thanks,” Clare continues. “Right Millie, we need to get going, I want to grab some petrol before we pick up Sophie. I’ll ring you later, Jen, to talk through the details.”
“Fantastic,” says Mum. “We’ll have a lovely time. I’m sure Isabella will enjoy it, too. Give her a taste of a traditional British holiday.”
Oh yeah. Isabella. I’d forgotten all about her.
“Isabella?” says Clare.
“I’ll tell you on the way,” Millie says.
As Clare and Millie leave, with Millie promising to call me later to discuss holiday outfits, Dad wanders back, flicking the kettle on.
“Clare’s joining us on holiday,” Mum calls from the hall.
Dad’s face brightens. “Brilliant. That means Martin is coming, right? He’ll balance up the male to female ratio somewhat.”
“I don’t think so,” Mum says. “As far as I know, it’ll only be Millie and Clare. I don’t know about Mark. I’ll ask him and Amber when they get back.”
Dad swallows as he does the quick calculations in his head. “So I’m going to be on holiday with seven women?” he says weakly. “Seven women and Mark?”
“Absolutely,” Mum says. “You’ll have a wonderful time.”
“Can’t I stay at home?” Dad asks. There’s excitement in his eyes as he ponders the prospect of time to himself, with nobody bothering him.
“No chance,” Mum says firmly. “We need someone to tow the caravan.”
CHAPTER FIVE
It’s not long until our fate is sealed.
Much internet research and several phone calls later, Mum has booked us into a place called Bluebell Campsite, in west Wales.
I’m not even getting to go in the stupid caravan but will be sleeping under canvas, because Dad said seeing as how he’s sharing with Mum, Amber, Mark and Clare – not forgetting Crystal Fairybelle – there was no room for anyone else. Millie’s bringing a tent, so we’ll share that, and Harry and Isabella can have the awning.
With the climate getting colder and soggier by the day, we’re going to freeze to death.
But at least Millie’s coming. Silver lining and all that.
“They have professional musicians,” reports Harry, returning from her online nosy into where we’re going to be staying.
Hmm. Well, I suppose that doesn’t sound too bad. I mean, if professional musicians go there, it must be pretty cool, right? Maybe The Drifting will turn up to do an impromptu gig or something.
Yeah, yeah, I know, it’s a long shot. But I’m still hopeful.
“Right, we’re off to get Isabella from the train station,” Mum says.
“Do I have to come?” asks Dad. “I don’t need to be there. I’m sure she’d much rather meet you by herself. And the darts is on…” He stares longingly in the direction of the lounge, and the TV.
“You’re coming,” Mum says. “Anybody else joining us?”
“I’m going for a lie down,” Amber says. “I’m not feeling too great.”
“Do you need anything?” Mum says. “We can take you back to the hospital if you think something’s wrong.”
“They said everything was fine when they saw her yesterday. And the day before. And the day before that, too,” Dad says.
“I know, but she needs to be careful,” Mum says. “It’s no trouble to run you back in if you want to be checked over,” she tells Amber.
“I’ll look after her, don’t worry,” Mark says, putting a reassuring hand on Amber’s back. “She’s tired, that’s all. The babies were dancing a jig in there all night.”
“Go and have a lie down then, it’s important you rest,” Mum says. “Suzy and Harry, you’re staying here. Suzy, I want your packing started and your room spotless by the time we get back, with the camp bed made up. Harry, your packing needs doing too.”
“My room’s tiny,” I complain. “There’ll be no room with a camp bed in there.”
“It’s not for long,” Mum says. “And there’d be a darn sight more room if you’d tidy it properly. And I mean properly. Not shoving everything into the wardrobe and forcing the doors shut. As for your packing, there’s a suitcase on our bed you can take.”
“And you’re only taking one case,” Dad says. “I know what you lot are like – clothes for every occasion with a few spares in case. We haven’t got room to take everything everyone’s ever worn. Are you listening, Suzy?”
“Uh huh,” I say, not really listening.
Mum checks the time. “Right, we need to go. Isabella’s train is getting in soon.”
As Mum hustles Dad out of the door, I huff back up the stairs. Stacked outside is the bedding for Isabella and the camp bed, ready to go into my room next to the desk. Talk about a squash. Isabella won’t have any space down there. It feels really weird, thinking about sleeping so close to a complete stranger. I know I’ve met her before, but it was about a hundred years ago.
My room really is a pigsty. I’ve got tons of clothes lying everywhere – some waiting to be washed, some waiting to be packed – plus there are bowls, mugs, a pile of sweet wrappers from the last time Millie was here and about six half-finished books littering every available surface.
My phone goes with a text from Millie.
12 skirts, 8 jeans and 5 shorts shd b enuf, yes? & 9 pairs shoes? All my tops, obvs. She there yet?
I tap back:
Def enuf. No. Pars gone to get her.
I lie on my bed to flick through a magazine for a bit, then decide I may as well get on with the tidying. Mum will only go nuts if I don’t, and who needs the hassle? I chuck all my dirty clothes into the corner of the room, before grabbing the suitcase from Mum and Dad’s room, and dumping it onto the bed.
We’re going for ten days. So how many pairs of jeans should I take? Probably best to take them all. And a few pairs of shorts, on the off chance the sun comes out at any point. My leggings – black, navy, brown, grey and charcoal. And then tops, and jumpers because it’s guaranteed to be cold, so my snuggly hoody, even if not the most fash, is definitely going in.
Plus I also need my hair-taming equipment (practically a suitcase’s worth by itself) and make-up and jewellery… Okay, there is no way everything is going to fit into this ridiculously small case.
I swap it for the larger one and carry on packing. It’s still one case, so Dad can’t complain. Swimming costumes, books, a couple of bags, oh and shoes, mustn’t forget shoes – trainers, trusty Converse, boots, pumps, a couple of pairs of sandals and flip-flops… That’s the trouble with this stupid British summer, you never know what the weather’s going to be like. You have to take clothes for every eventuality – rain, shine or hurricane.
Finally I’m done. And actually, it’s a lot tidier in here, probably because ninety per cent of everything I own has been crammed into the case, but never mind. So now I’ll chuck my dirty clothes into the washing basket and I’ll be done.
Oh dear God.
There is a massive, creepy moth nestled on top of my dirty clothes, giving me the stink eye.
My breathing gets quick and my chest tightens.
I could squish it with a magazine, but it’s resting on a top I don’t want covered in moth guts. What if I grab the clothes and shake them out of the window? Then the moth will fly off on its merry way and I won’t have to go that near to it.
I just need it out of my room. Now.
It’s more scared of you than you are of it, I repeat in my head, not that it helps. As I open the windo
w and see our car pulling up, I realise I need to act fast. I was under strict orders that everything had to be in place before Isabella got back, and the bed still isn’t in the room or made up. My eyes flick onto Isabella for a moment, and see that, wow, she’s seriously pretty.
Actually, no.
She’s stunning.
Long, dark hair and a gorgeous outfit. But I don’t have time to take much in before my attention returns to the problem at hand.
The moth.
I gingerly seize the pile of clothes.
Don’t want to get too close… Now, don’t start moving, moth. Stay there, nice and still… Oh God, it’s flapping!
I shriek and drop the bundle in alarm. The moth flutters back down again. Luckily it’s still on the clothes, but now it’s hugging my bra and stinky socks. With any luck, it’ll die from the toxic fumes.
Nervously, I gather the clothes again and make my way to the window, where I lean out and start to shake them.
Mothy doesn’t budge.
I shake harder.
And harder.
Will you just get off…
Mum, Dad and Isabella are coming now, walking up the path.
“Suzy?” Mum says, glancing up in bewilderment. “What are you doing?”
I give another violent shake, but it’s too hard and the bundle of clothes falls out of my grasp. The moth flies away, the clothes fall through the air, and my bra lands on Isabella’s dark head.
She seems seriously unimpressed as my B-cups flap round her cheeks in the breeze.
Way to make a first impression, Suze.
“Um, hi,” I say, waving weakly. “Sorry about that.”
Isabella mutters something darkly in what I suspect is Italian as she plucks at the bra disdainfully, holding it between her thumb and forefinger while stepping over the dirty socks and pants littering the path.
“You’ll have to excuse my daughter,” Mum says, grabbing the bra and shoving it into her handbag. “That’s Suzy. You’ll be sharing her room.”
“Really?” Isabella says, sounding deeply unenthusiastic. She stares up at where I’m still hanging out of the window. “I can’t wait.”
Once Isabella’s inside, I quickly start to realise she’s one of those girls.
Suzy P and the Trouble with Three Page 4