Shine

Shine Kate Maryon Tiff's mum is a thief and she's about to get caught … A brilliant novel from a fantastic writer for girls.Twelve-year-old Tiff loves her mum, Carla, who is glitzy and fun and always coming home with shiny new amazing stuff. The trouble is, Tiff's mum doesn't buy things, she takes them. The fact is, Tiff's mum is a thief…When Carla gets caught, Tiff’s shiny life is ruined. She's packed off to a remote island to live with Carla's family. A family her mum never even talks about and that Tiff has never even met! How can she survive in this dull, dull place?But the island of Sark isn't as awful as Tiff imagined it would be. The islanders are kind and honest and she's happy spending time with them. So three months later, when it's finally time for her mum to join her, Tiff can't help feeling more than a little bit worried… Shine Kate Maryon Copyright (#ulink_cd9d8682-9e06-5a77-b9de-3bb6d6addb39) HarperCollins Children’s Books A division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk) First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Children’s Books 2010 Shine Text copyright © Kate Maryon 2010 The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure the picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication Source ISBN: 9780007326273 Ebook edition © FEBRUARY 2010 ISBN: 9780007351961 Version: 2018-08-13 For my brother Tim and sister Susie, Against all odds – like stars at night we shine, I love you both with all my heart x Contents Cover (#uede549fc-4e64-5082-992f-0a1c4c41dcc5) Title Page (#u09e8e2f9-c979-5a2d-9032-4377019082b5) Copyright (#uf959968c-3422-57a3-8f2c-d642cb2d15f3) Dedication (#u7200b330-6929-5dcd-b49d-53c0b4f2e571) Foreword (#u18906370-bcb8-5bcf-a787-18576c4b078f) Chapter 1 (#udb767944-99fc-5807-998e-8aa73213b83d) Chapter 2 (#uf25597c9-d227-572b-8d97-133f00aa37d2) Chapter 3 (#u9200a2bf-2fd7-5d48-b682-e9f260c5f940) Chapter 4 (#u8964fce5-a19a-59cc-be72-1abf3e3fa66a) Chapter 5 (#u33171406-70b6-559b-a695-49ff96ce23dd) Chapter 6 (#u44167884-c107-5ee4-8447-13e16fa0e58e) Chapter 7 (#u24016b5c-6469-5fde-9f07-a6c1447f4db6) Chapter 8 (#u97bd091f-a282-56a2-8029-c6c53cc8008d) Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 27 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 28 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 29 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 30 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 31 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 32 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 33 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 34 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 35 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 36 (#litres_trial_promo) Keep Reading (#litres_trial_promo) Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo) About the Author (#litres_trial_promo) Also by the Author (#litres_trial_promo) About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo) Shine When Kate Maryon isn’t writing, or walking her large Newfoundland dog, Ellie, or spending time with her grown-up children, Jane and Tim, or her grown-up stepchildren, Sam, Joe and Ben, or having fun with her partner Daniel, or visiting the rest of her family, or sitting in caf?s and other lovely places with her friends, she can be found working from a clinic in Somerset, where she practises homeopathy, or in Devon where she works on detox retreats. And with all this going on there’s never a shortage of stories and wonderful things to write about. Kate loves chocolate, films, eating out, reading, writing and lying on sunny beaches. She dislikes snakes, spiders, peppermint and honey. Chapter 1 (#ulink_b78d3f9b-892b-5e46-b9cc-6ea0d4ac1c17) she’s just like a real magpie… My mum totally loves shiny things, like silver and gold and jewels and big, fast, shiny cars. Mikey, her business partner, calls her ‘Magpie’ because she’s always on the lookout for things, just like one of those magpie-birds that takes shiny stuff and hoards it in its nest. The only difference is that my mum hoards things in our flat, which means if she doesn’t stop soon we’ll be facing an emergency situation due to lack of space. The thing I worry about most is that my mum says she can’t stop herself. She is truly addicted. And the worst thing is that often she doesn’t even buy things, she just takes them. Anything shiny is just too tempting for her. Some people might call it ‘stealing’; my mum calls it ‘borrowing’. It is stealing though and, well, that’s not exactly a good thing is it? And though me and Mum do some pretty cool stuff, sometimes she can be so embarrassing. Like the other day when we were walking through the market and she saw a fluffy scarf that she wanted for me. She just strolled up to the stall and while she was busy talking to the lady about the weather, she slipped it into her bag. And then what am I supposed to do? I can hardly scream “Thief” and get my mum arrested for shoplifting! So I just stay close and keep my mouth shut, and if people notice we make a run for it, fast. I also know that she spends money on the internet using other people’s credit cards. You might think that’s a good thing for me because I have stuff, like three iPods, seven watches, a drawer full of rings, bangles and necklaces, two giant plasma TVs and my own laptop. And I do like getting all that stuff…and I love my mum and we’re a team, just me and her. But sometimes I wish she was more like a normal mum. I can’t tell anyone the truth about the stealing or say anything to her about it because I don’t want to upset her, and I’m afraid that if I do say anything she’ll go off on one of her temper tantrums, which means she’ll go straight out to the shops again, just to cheer herself up. Last month we had a row and Mum drank loads of wine. Then she went out and came back with an amazing mega-red sports car that Mikey got hold of. I wanted us to make up, so I squashed down my worries and had fun as Mum and me zoomed about all over the place with the roof down wearing headscarves and big sunglasses like movie stars do. “Living the dream, that’s what we’re doing, babe,” Mum giggled as we raced down the High Street. But a couple of days ago Mum got bored of it, and sold it on to this uber-rich lady while I was at school. “We’ve done it, babe, the world’s our oyster!” she squealed, as she showed me the hugest mountain of cash I’ve ever seen. We danced around the living room like crazy things, throwing our money-confetti high up in the air and letting it fall down on us like paper rain. Right then we knew that the money would change our days. But we didn’t know how much it would change our lives. Chapter 2 (#ulink_9892a350-fb32-5d15-962a-54a91e106f6e) a woman possessed by the idea of a dog… After school the next day we get down to business, writing big, fat shopping lists and making plans. I am determined not to think about where the money came from and I’m trying to join in with the fun. I find a sheet of plain paper and a marker pen and draw a line down the middle. I write “Tiff” at the top of one column and “Carla”, that’s my mum’s name, at the top of the other. In Mum’s column I write the things she wants: 1) new perfume 2) some more diamond earrings 3) a pair of boots with shiny buckles 4) champagne. Under my name I write: 1) pencil case 2) new tops 3) a book and 4) a pet. “Don’t even go there, Tiff,” says Mum, “There’s just no way, not ever, that I could put up with a pooping, piddling pet scatting about the house.” “A pony?” I ask, hopefully. “A pony wouldn’t even come near the house.” Mum raises her eyebrows and slurps her glass of wine. I can see that something is on her mind. “My dad got me and Cass ponies when we moved to Sark…mine was called Mabel and…Oh, never mind, Tiff,” she sighs. “The answer’s no and that’s that. Can we not go on about it any more, please? You’re giving me a headache.” And I know not to go on, or ask any more questions, because my mum never talks about her past. Except occasionally, when she’s had too much wine to drink and the words sort of slip out of her mouth. But once she realises what she’s doing she always stops herself and changes the subject, especially when the subject happens to be Sark, the tiny island her family moved to when she was little. All I know is that my mum ran away from Sark when she was seventeen and has never been back since. I’ve never been, full stop. And I’ve never even met or seen a photo of my dad because he ran off before I was born. And I don’t know her family, including my grandparents and my Auntie Cass. “In the bright lights, babe, that’s where we belong.” Mum always says. So we never talk about anything old. In our life everything’s always shiny and new. She takes a brush to my hair and tugs at my tangles. She takes another glug of wine. “Come on, cheer up,” she says, kissing me on the end of my nose. “Let’s have some fun shopping and then we can grab us one of our super-famous slap-up dinners. How would that be?” “OK,” I say, “but no funny stuff, promise?” “Promise,” she winks, drawing two big red lines of lipstick across her lips and smacking them together. “You know me, Tiff. It’s you and me,” she says. “You and me, Mum,” I echo, switching off the TV. After a bit of retail therapy, where my mum actually managed to keep her fingers to herself and pay for our treats with cash, she decides we need go to Miguel’s to have our hair and nails done. I really, really want to have my hair cut all short and choppy, but Mum insists I keep it long. She loves the way she can brush it and make it all smooth and shiny. “But I want a proper hairstyle! I’m twelve, Mum; I’m not a little girl. And Chelsea’s having hers done!” “I said no, Tiff, and that is the end of the haircut conversation.” And, just like always, Mum gets her way and I have to go along with it. “Cooooeeeee, Carla,” shrieks Bianca, my mum’s best friend, when we walk into Miguel’s place. She starts leaping up and down in the chair and waving her arms about like a wild thing. “Come and look over here!” We go over to where she’s sipping coffee and having more highlights put in her ice-blonde hair. My mum and Bianca hug like mad things and jump up and down like they haven’t seen each other for at least a hundred years. Bianca grabs my cheeks and squeezes them hard in a friendly kind of a way. “Ooh, you two are gonna be so jealous when I show you what I have in here,” she squeals, pointing at her bag. “Look what Harry got me. Can you believe it?” I do look, and a little pink puppy nose peeps over the top of the bag, and a tiny ball of white fluff wags its tail. Bianca lifts ‘Queenie’ out of the bag and puts her on the floor, and everyone in Miguel’s – especially me – goes crazy for her until she does a little tiddle on Miguel’s gleaming white tiles. Then Miguel starts huffing about the place saying it’s a salon he’s running here, not a zoo. Mum changes her mind about having our slap-up meal because we spent so long having our hair and nails done. But I don’t mind because when we’re on our way home she starts talking and I totally can’t believe what my ears are hearing. “I just have to have one!” Mum’s wailing like a three-year-old. I really, really, really have to have one.” It was only a few hours ago my mum totally refused to even consider the idea of having a pet. But now that her best friend has a puppy, suddenly everything has changed. She is so childish! But right now, I’m trying to think of the positives, and I’m totally fizzing inside with excitement. I don’t want to say anything at all that will make her change her mind because I know we’ll be getting our own puppy uber-quick-pronto. You see words like wait, patience and think just aren’t in her brain dictionary. She loves things to be fast, like fast cars and fast food. “OK, so let’s go to the rescue place,” I suggest. “Good idea,” she says, “for some people. But not for us, Tiff! The whole rescue-dog thing would take too long to sort out. I’ve made up my mind: I want a dog and I want it now.” “Muuumm,” I say, worrying that she’s up to no good, “what are you planning?” “Don’t panic, babe, even I wouldn’t take someone’s dog! And anyway, we don’t want a boring old biffer of a dog, do we? We want something new; something special.” I try to argue that rescue-dogs need good homes, but as usual Mum gets her way. We have bags and bags of cash to splash so we head off to the place where Bianca got Queenie and hand over ?800 for a cute little white fluff-a-fluff. I fall in love with her straightaway. “Let’s call her Powder Puff,” I say, trying to think of a good name, “or Snowflake.” “Good try, Tiff, but I really can’t see myself standing in the park every morning shouting out ‘Powder Puff, Powder Puff’, can you? And she’s really not a frosty little snowflake is she?” I have a feeling it doesn’t really matter what I think in this situation. Mum goes to the fridge, throws me a Coke and pours herself a glass of her favourite white wine, Chardonnay. “I’ve got it!” she shrieks. “She’s a Chardonnay from head to tail! Don’t you just love it, babe?” And I suppose I do. So we get out my favourite hair-brush and give Chardonnay her first proper pamper session. Then we get busy on the internet ordering things that we think a puppy might need. We choose a shiny diamant? collar, a pink lead, some pink polka-dot dog bowls and a proper princess-bed with a special silk doggy duvet. We go crazy over dog clothes and order Chardonnay a tartan outfit and hat for rainy days, a pink party dress for celebration days and a little pink tracksuit for everyday park-wear. Just when we’re about to order ourselves a takeaway, Mum’s mobile springs into life and blares out a show tune. “Mikey-babe,” she says. Then she’s listening for a while and I notice that she’s nibbling her brand-new nails. “Right, OK, see you there then.” She dumps Chardonnay on my lap. “Sorry, Tiff, I just have to go and meet Mikey for a bit. I’ll be back soon. You all right with Chardonnay?” “Sure,” I say, my tummy rumbling. “See you later alligator.” “In a while crocodile. And, babe,” she says, halfway out of the door, “I’ve been thinking that we deserve a holiday. Monte Carlo, Las Vegas, Hawaii, wherever you fancy.” The amazing holiday we had last year flashes into my mind. We went to Barbados and stayed in this uber-cool hotel and pretended we were real princesses. We just had to click our fingers and we got whatever we wanted. “Barbados again?” I say. “Hm. I was thinking of somewhere new,” says Mum. “Let’s check out the brochures tomorrow. And, hey, why don’t you call Chelsea and get her to come round for a sleepover, to keep you company?” “Brilliant idea, Mum,” I say. “Thanks.” She comes over and kisses me on the top of my head. “You have to look after your friends, Tiff, make them feel special.” She’s twiddling one of my blonde waves round and round her finger and I catch on her face that far-away look, that thinking-of-her-old-life look. “The thing is, Tiff,” she continues, “you never know what’s going to happen in life. One day you might wake up to discover that your friends have gone, that they just aren’t there for you any more. So take my advice, babe, and treasure them while you can.” It’s kind of weird for my mum to say stuff like that, and I’m sure I see a tiny tear escape from the corner of her eye. She wipes it away and heads for the door again. “You and me, babe,” she calls through a perfume haze. Chapter 3 (#ulink_f7e44c2f-9cd2-58e9-b71b-85cb9da151dd) craaaaaaazy about tiffany’s… When it’s just Chardonnay and me I call my best friend, Chelsea, to see if she can come over. She only lives in the same block of flats as us, but her dad’s quite a worry guts, so ten minutes later, when she gets dropped off, I pretend that my mum’s just popped out to buy some milk. “What shall we do, Tiff?” asks Chelsea, plaiting Chardonnay’s fringe. “Definitely an old movie,” I say. “Wizard of Oz?” “Why, of course,” says Chelsea, in the American voice we sometimes use when we’re playing around. Then we move into action. First we pile the sofa high with cushions and duvets and put out loads of snacks in tiny bowls. Then we get all dressed up in two of Mum’s glittery dresses and put on our sparkly high-heeled ruby slippers that we bought for each other last Christmas. We put on loads of Mum’s make-up, tie up our hair and make two delicious Shirley Temple cocktails. “Your mum’s so cool, Tiff,” says Chelsea. “Mine would go crazy if I even went anywhere near her make-up. If I used it, I think she’d just totally explode. And she’d never leave me in the house alone. My parents still think I’m about five years old, or something, and they act like they’re at least a hundred.” “Mum likes me using her stuff,” I say. “We share everything. She trusts me and I trust her.” My voice wobbles a bit when I hear myself talking to Chels about trust. Because I think that my mum does trust me, but I’m not so sure that I completely trust her. “Come on,” I say, changing the subject, “let’s watch the movie.” Chelsea and I love all the old-fashioned films. Things like the original Parent Trap and Whistle Down the Wind and Pollyanna with Hayley Mills in them. They’re so much better than new ones. The Wizard of Oz is our all-time favourite, with Judy Garland playing Dorothy. Breakfast at Tiffany’s is my mum’s favourite and it’s where she got my name from. Tiffany’s is this amazing, expensive jewellery shop in New York, and there’s one in London too, and it was the first place Mum wanted to go to when she ran away from Sark. Chels and I know all the words from all the movies off by heart because we’ve watched them so many times. And sometimes we even turn the sound right down and do the voice bits ourselves. “Toto,” I say to Chelsea, messing about in my best American accent, handing her some Pringles, “I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas any more.” “I know,” says Chels, giggling, “we must be over the rainbow.” And then we just get the giggles and snorts big-time and turn off all the lights and snuggle down with Chardonnay to watch. “What now?” asks Chels when the film has finished and we’re giving each other a proper face-mask pamper-treatment. “How about a horror movie?” I say. “Something really spoooookey. Let’s see what’s on.” I start surfing through the channels. There’s loads of boring stuff on and just as we are about to give up I see Mikey’s face splashed all over Crimewatch. My heart drops into my tummy and starts churning around like a washing machine on full spin. This isn’t the kind of horror thing I was looking for. “Er, Tiff,” says Chelsea. “Isn’t that your mum’s friend? And look, there’s that big red sports car that you and your mum had last week.” I realise that I’m just sitting there staring at the screen. My mouth has turned into the Sahara Desert and my voice has done a runner. I stare and stare at Mikey’s face on the TV. It’s one of those police photos that makes him look all scary, like a murderer. I don’t want to watch, but my hands can’t make the remote work. “Looks like he’s in big trouble,” says Chels, edging closer to the screen. My chest has heavy birds flapping inside, and someone’s fist is in my tummy, squeezing it tight. I don’t really know what’s happening, but I know that something is very, very, very wrong. My hands are shaking and I spill lemonade all over the place while I make us more drinks. The doorbell rings. I open it and Chelsea’s dad is standing there with a boiling-mad face. “Where’s your mum, Tiff?” he gruffs. I can’t speak. “Grab your things, Chels,” he says, “you’re coming home with me.” “But I’m sleeping over, Dad,” she argues, still covered in my mum’s expensive face cream. “It’s not up for discussion, Chelsea,” he says. “You’re coming home now and that’s that. And you,” he says, staring goggle-eyed at me, “you tell your mum it’s not right to leave under-fourteens on their own in the house. Tell her it’s downright dangerous, got it?” I nod, trying to keep control of my bottom lip. It’s gone all stupid and keeps twitching and trembling. Chelsea takes off Mum’s dress, pulls on her jeans and shoves her ruby slippers and sleepover stuff in her bag. “You gonna be OK, Tiff?” she asks, squeezing my hand. I squeeze her hand back and paint on a smile, then the door slams and I’m left alone with Chardonnay, wondering. My whole body follows my lip and turns to jelly. I’m freezing and shaking. I close the curtains and double-lock the door. Then I switch channels to a comedy thing, hide under the duvet with Chardonnay, and wait. Chapter 4 (#ulink_16f4206d-bdbb-509b-b77a-0c169d1d5c27) you’re such a little worry guts… “Quick, Tiff!” Mum calls out, slamming the front door, “We’re going on that holiday. Now! Get your bits together, babe, you know: sun cream, bikini, i Pod, that new book you bought.” She stumbles into the flat and trips over Chardonnay, who’s wagging her tail and panting like crazy, pleased to see Mum. I’m pleased to see her too, and my jelly body melts a bit and calms down. I don’t feel so scared now she’s home. “I saw Mikey,” I say. “I saw Mikey on the telly. His face was all over Crimewatch and Chelsea saw everything and then her dad came and got all cross that you weren’t here and took her home.” “What you talking about, Tiff?” she says, pulling our wheelie bags from the cupboard in the hall. “Mikey’s not on telly, he’s been with me, babe. You must’ve got it wrong.” “But Mum,” I persist, rescuing Chardonnay from her spiky heels, “I saw him, and there was a picture of that red car we had, and I need you to tell me what’s going on.” The washing machine starts up in my tummy again and the birds begin flapping in my brain. “Oh, Tiff, lighten up,” she says, in a harsh voice. “You’re such a little worry guts. Trust me, baby, trust me.” I stare cold eyes at her. “You do trust me, Tiff, don’t you? I couldn’t bear it if you didn’t.” And then her eyes start welling up, and I can’t make her cry so I put a cheerful face on to calm her down, but my worries keep on nibbling at my brain. “Why are we going now?” I ask. “I thought we were going to look at the brochures tomorrow and choose somewhere together. And there’s a new rule at school and we have to get special permission to go away during term-time. We have to wait till Monday, Mum. Please? And let them know properly.” “Worry guts,” Mum teases, rushing about the place with her bikini in her hand. “We’re going on holiday now because Mikey managed to get a special deal. Don’t you worry your pretty little head about boring old school, I’ve got it all under control. Come on now, we’ve got to hurry, babe, he’ll be here for us any minute now.” I ignore our dressing-up mess and try to squeeze myself into the holiday mood. But I don’t feel very holi-dayish. I feel more worried, and I hate not knowing what’s really going on. I squash my worries down because now isn’t the time to set my mum off on one of her moods. When your mum has big tantrums like mine does, you get very good at learning how to squash your own feelings down so she doesn’t go crazy. “Where are we going, Mum?” I ask, trying hard to sound chirpy and excited. “Is it somewhere we can have cocktails and mocktails on the balcony? Like last year?” We’re both busy stuffing clothes and last summer’s sandals into our bags. “Not sure, yet, babe,” she says, getting our passports from the drawer. “We’ll have a real adventure this time, you know, like in the movies. We thought we’d hop on a ferry from Dover to France and just keep on driving towards the sun.” She’s talking really fast and her voice sounds all squeaky and high and her hands are trembling. Just then a car horn blares away in the street outside. “Time to go,” says Mum. Then she starts swaying about and singing, “We’re all going on an – autumn holiday; no more working for a week or two.” And I know that she wants me to join in with her, and I try, but the words somehow get stuck in the little worry bag that’s sitting in my throat. We turn off the lights and head for the door. “What about Chardonnay?” I ask. “Oh, worry guts again. Chardonnay’ll be all right, Tiff. We’ll ring Bianca – she’ll look after her. Come on, Mikey’s waiting.” But I don’t budge. “I’m not leaving her,” I say. “She’s just a tiny puppy that you were completely crazy about getting only this afternoon, Mum. If you hadn’t noticed, she can’t take care of herself. And she’s ours, not Bianca’s. She’d be scared on her own – it’s cruel.” “Tiff, I’m telling you, it’s time to go. Now is not the time for questions.” “No, Mum,” I say. “What’s happening? This whole holiday thing doesn’t feel right. It’s too sudden. We never just pack our bags and go. And I did see Mikey on Crimewatch and Chelsea saw it too. It’s not in my imagination, it’s real, Mum. And it’s not normal to just pack your bags in the middle of the night and go on holiday. So if Chardonnay’s staying, then I’m staying too.” Mum switches the lights back on and stares me out. “I said it’s time to go, Tiff.” “And I said I’m not leaving without Chardonnay.” I’m good at staring people out. Chelsea and I practise it all the time and see who can last the longest. After a while my mum huffs, makes her way to the kitchen and takes a slug from a half-finished bottle of wine. “You win,” she says, “but stuff her in your bag and keep her quiet for a bit. Mikey’ll murder me when he finds out.” The car horn down in the street blasts out again. I grab a couple of tins of puppy food and a bottle of water and follow Mum out. “You excited, honey?” she slurs, swigging on her wine, while we’re standing in the lift. “I think you’re too much of a worry guts for your age, Tiff. You shouldn’t be worried about life when you’re twelve years old. I bet Chelsea would jump at the chance of having this kind of adventure. It’s fun going away on a surprise holiday. You remember that word, Tiff, you know, the fun, fun, fun word? Ah, I do love you though,” she breathes wine breath in my ear and kisses my cheek. “My little star. You and me, babe,” she says. “You and me.” I turn away from her, still angry, but tired of arguing and sad that she’s drunk again. I busy myself with making a safe, cosy nest in my rucksack for Chardonnay, and I zip her in so Mikey won’t see. Chapter 5 (#ulink_1ef2d0b6-8f3b-5a2a-b02e-9e5eaff35c64) there’ll be bluebells over the white cliffs of Dover… Mikey’s waiting for us in a car I’ve never seen before. We throw our stuff in the boot and climb in. Mikey’s puffing away on a fat cigar. Mum shares her wine with him and off we roar, away from London, away from home. “You excited, Tiffany?” asks Mikey, puffing thick cigar smoke all around the car. “Who knows where we’re going to end up, eh? Ooh, somewhere hot for me, please.” I force a smile, do up my seat belt and peer at Chardonnay. Luckily she’s already snoozing away in her cosy rucksack nest. Mum and Mikey start droning on about boring stuff and making rude jokes. It’s dark and late and the car is full of smoke, but I know Mikey’s face and I know I saw it on Crimewatch. I guess I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I know is that Mum is shaking me awake. “Wakey, wakey, sleepyhead,” she’s saying, “wakey, wakey.” I open my eyes. It’s really dark outside and raining hard. I stuff my hand in my rucksack and give Chardonnay a reassuring stroke. She licks my fingers and snuggles back down. My neck aches from sleeping in the car and I badly need a wee from all the Shirley Temples that Chels and I had drunk. This doesn’t feel like a fun holiday to me, but Mum and Mikey are laughing and having a good time. “We’re in Dover, Tiff,” says Mum, then she and Mikey start singing some old song, “There’ll be bluebells over, the white cliffs of Dover…” We pull up in the line of cars queuing to get on the ferry. Mikey’s holding all our passports and he keeps tap, tap, tapping them on the steering wheel, waiting to get through passport control. “All right, mate?” he asks the passport man when it’s our turn. The man nods, peers into the car and then starts checking our passports, one by one. Mikey’s tapping gets louder and more and more impatient and Mum starts switching her diamond rings from one finger to another. “Can we go home?” I whisper. “Ssshhh, baby,” says Mum, leaning over and stroking my head with a hard hand, “Nearly there.” The man hands the passports back to Mikey and waves us on. “Phew,” sighs Mikey, relaxing as we pull away. “Yay!” shrieks Mum, frantically jiggling my hand up and down. “Freedom, Tiff! Freedom!” Suddenly, some policemen step in front of the car and wave us over to one side. Mikey starts tap, tap, tapping on the steering wheel again and Mum starts fidgeting with her hair. “Just a routine check, sir,” says one of the policemen, leaning into the front window. “May we take another look at your passports, please?” “Is this completely necessary?” says Mikey. “We need to board the ferry as soon as,” he says, waving a hand toward me. “The kid needs the toilet; know what I mean?” “I’m afraid it is necessary, sir, and we’ll get you on board as soon as we can.” I feel really awake now, because something’s not right. All the other cars are driving past us and climbing the ramp to board the ferry. But we’re stuck here with policemen asking us questions. It’s late and I want to be at home, asleep next to Chelsea, dreaming of The Wizard of Oz and Shirley Temple cocktails. I wish my mum had never had this stupid idea in the first place. I don’t even want to go on holiday. I want my normal Saturday with Chels and me cosying up in bed, watching TV and eating ice cream straight from the tub. With Mum and me, together, wandering through the shops and buying cool stuff. Getting dressed up in new clothes and having lunch out, like ladies do. And we’d planned to take Chardonnay to the park. Everything is going wrong. The policeman looks at me, scratches his head, and then turns to Mikey. “Are you the registered keeper of this vehicle, sir?” “Yes mate,” says Mikey, tapping and tapping. “It’s all in order, officer, I just bought it from my brother-in-law, he must have forgotten to send off the papers.” The policeman scratches his head again and I wonder if he has nits, like Chels and I had in the summer. “If you’d like to get out of the vehicle, sir, and step this way.” Mikey groans and opens the door. Mum lets out a wounded-dog squeal and starts rocking backwards and forwards humming the white cliffs of Dover song. Then we’re surrounded by blue flashing lights, and I know that Crimewatch was true and that Chelsea was right. A large ball of worry drops into my tummy and wobbles around, and a sharp lump sticks in my throat. I start tap, tap, tapping and humming the white cliffs of Dover song too because now I really know that my mum’s in trouble. Big trouble. And what about me? All the doors are pulled open. There are policemen everywhere and handcuffs are snapped on to Mikey and Mum. “Mum!” I call from the back seat, “Mum, what’s happening?” “It’s all right, babe, Mama’s here, no worries,” her voice trembles as someone guides her towards a police car. “You and me, Tiff,” she calls through the rain. “You and me, Mum.” I call back, panicking. “You and me.” I watch my mum pulling and struggling against the policemen. She starts screaming at them and fighting, and I wish they knew how to soothe her tantrums. A lady police officer climbs into the car and sits next to me. “I’m Benita,” she says. “What’s your name, love?” “Tiffany,” I sniff. “What’s happening to my mum?” “I’m really sorry, Tiffany,” she says, handing me a tissue, “we have to take your mum and dad into custody for a bit. There’s some stuff that’s happened and we just need to check it all out.” She’s trying to sound cheerful and reassuring. “We’ll have you all back together as soon as we can.” “He’s not my dad,” I say, “he’s my mum’s business partner.” Then, before I know it, I’m in a police car, and my little wheelie suitcase is in the back. My mum’s in another car being driven away from me, with blue lights flashing. I don’t even know where Dover is and I need the toilet and Chardonnay is wriggling in the bag. The large ball keeps rolling around in my tummy, making me feel like I’m going to be sick. I can’t stop my hand tap, tap, tapping on the car window and the white cliffs of Dover song is spinning through my mind, like it’s got stuck in my brain. “Where are you from, Tiffany?” Benita asks. “London,” I say. “Is there anyone we can call for you, love? Your dad, maybe, or grandparents, aunts or uncles, friends?” “There’s my school friend, Chelsea,” I sniff, “but her dad’s really angry with my mum.” “Anyone else?” I shake my head. “No one,” I say. “Just me and Mum.” Chapter 6 (#ulink_f3446ae4-1e3f-5b8a-aeae-a9773c99b6da) a whole lake of tears is welling… We drive to the police station. Benita shows me to the toilets and then sits me in a room with a brown plastic table and orange chairs. Chardonnay’s still wriggling but she hasn’t made a sound yet. She’s such a good dog. “Can I get you a cup of tea, or some water?” “No thanks,” I say. “When can I see my mum and go home?” “Tiffany,” she says, kneeling down beside me and taking my hand, “I’m really sorry, but we have to keep Mum here for a bit; until things are sorted out.” “What about me?” I croak. “Well,” she says, in a trying-to-be-kind voice, “as it’s so late and there’s no one for us to call at this stage, we’ve had to ask social services to send a social worker who will find somewhere for you to stay tonight. Then tomorrow we’ll be able to take a fresh look at things. Mum knows what’s happening to you and she knows that you’ll be safe.” A whole lake of tears wells and quivers up through my body and tries to escape from my eyes. But I won’t let it. I blink a lot and sniff into the tissue. Then I hear my mum’s voice screaming away in another room, saying lots of swear words, calling out for me. Chardonnay hears her too because she starts scrabbling about in the bag. I pat her down to try and keep her quiet. “What have you got in there, love?” asks Benita. “Nothing.” “Sure?” she asks, not believing me. And then Chardonnay takes a leap and starts yelping and my bag tumbles to the ground. Benita picks up the bag and takes a peep inside. “Look what we’ve got in here,” she says, holding Chardonnay in the air. Then Chardonnay decides that she can’t hold on to her wee any more and it trickles on to the floor. “Sorry,” I say. “No problem, Tiffany, I’ll buzz for someone to come and mop it up.” Benita presses a red button on the wall. “As for you,” she says, ruffling Chardonnay’s fluff, “I’m afraid we’re going to have to put you in kennels for the night.” My lake of tears starts pushing up again. I blink hard because I won’t let myself cry. “Can’t she come with me?” I ask, “Please? We only just got her and she hasn’t even had one whole night with us yet.” “I’m sorry, but no one will take on you and a puppy as an emergency at this time of night. But don’t you worry, we’ll take good care of her – promise.” The lump in my throat rises up again and I can’t swallow it down. Now I know how Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz feels when the nasty neighbour tries to take her dog, Toto, away. I can’t lose my puppy, not now that I’ve finally got her. Why can’t my mum sort this mess out and take us home? Surely there’s something she can do? Chardonnay’ll be scared. And lonely. I can hear my mum’s voice travelling down the corridor. She’s screaming and shouting and having one of her full-blown temper tantrums. “If I could just see my mum before I go, I’d be able to calm her down for you,” I say quietly. “I’m not sure it’s allowed,” Benita says. “Please?” A teeny river pushes its way out and stings my cheek. I rub my eye pretending I have an eyelash in it. Benita pats my shoulder. “You stay here and I’ll see what I can do, I’ll just be a sec.” She leaves the room and my ears fill with the sound of keys clattering and doors clunking and Mum shouting. I look at my watch. It’s one o’clock in the morning. “You can have five minutes,” says Benita, coming back into the room, “I’ve spoken to the sergeant and he says you can pop in to say a quick goodnight to your mum.” I feel all jelly again, and I’m shaking all over. My heart’s pounding. We walk down the grey corridor towards my mum’s shouting. Benita thumps the door, I hear some keys jangling and we’re in. I fly into Mum’s arms and we squeeze each other tight, holding on, not wanting to let go. “I’m sorry, baby,” she sobs into my hair, “I’m so, so, sorry.” I cling on, breathe in her smell, and snuggle into her warmth. “Don’t leave me,” I whisper. “Please don’t leave me, Mum.” She sobs and sobs and I worry that she’ll never be able to stop. She clings on so tight that her nails dig in. The big policeman standing near the door coughs and I remember that I don’t have long to make her feel better. “Remember your mascara, Mum,” I say. I lick my tissue and mop up her face. “You don’t want to go around looking like a mess, do you? What would Bianca say, eh, Mum?” She pulls herself together. I untangle her hair, take her face in my hands and kiss her on the nose. “Now come on, Mum, all this screaming and shouting isn’t going to get us anywhere, is it?” I soothe. “Sorry, Tiff,” she sniffs, “I’ll be good. I promise. It was all Mikey’s fault. You do believe me, Tiff, don’t you? Just give me a bit of time to sort this mess out and we’ll be back home together before you can say ‘wizard’.” I don’t know what to believe any more. But I know it’s not normal to be in a police station with my mum in the middle of the night. And I know I’m the only one in the world who can calm her down. And I’m boiling mad inside because our life is always about her. “What about me?” I whisper. “What happens to me and Chardonnay while you’re sorting it all out?” “I promise you, Tiff, it won’t be for long and I’ll come and pick you both up as soon as I can.” “But, Mum, please!” “There’s nothing I can do, babe. Nothing.” Suddenly a brilliant idea pops into my mind. “Except…except maybe you could telephone someone…on Sark?” “Don’t even go there, Tiff, I’ve told you before.” “But it has to be worth a try, Mum, please?” “Oh, I don’t know, Tiff, it’s been too long. They may have moved away years ago. I can’t just call out of the blue when I’m in trouble and ask for help, can I?” “But, Mum, this is about me as well. It’s not just about you. I’m going to be sent off to a foster home, alone. They’re my family too, they’re not just yours.” My mum drags her hand through her hair. “OK,” she sniffs, “I’ll do my best, Tiff, I promise.” The policeman tells us our time is up. I put the plug in my feelings and pull away. “Now be good and do what they tell you,” I say. “No more tantrums.” “No more tantrums,” Mum echoes. Benita takes hold of my hand and heads for the door; Mum holds the other one, not wanting to let me go. They’re both hanging on, tugging gently. Mum’s hand and mine slide apart until we’re just touching fingertips, until there’s just space between us, and then she crumples in a heap on her orange chair. “I love you, babe,” she whispers. “I love you, Mum.” Chapter 7 (#ulink_02df6694-1094-5c5a-a144-f50cc9462d24) so I need you to trust me… A man in a funny hat comes into the room where me and Benita are still waiting. Chardonnay is on my lap. Her little body keeps trembling and she’s looking all lost and worried. In one day she’s gone from being cosy at home with her mum and puppy brothers and sisters to being in a police room, on her way to the kennels. I hold her close wishing she were small enough to climb inside my pocket and come with me, wherever I’m going. Benita yawns, sips her hot tea and shakes hands with the man. “Hi, Tiffany,” he says. He holds out his hand for me to shake. “Sorry I took so long to get to you.” He pulls up an orange chair and sits really close to me. “I know this must all be very difficult for you, Tiffany, and there’s a lot for you to take in,” he says. “My name’s Amida and I’m your social worker. It’s my job to make sure that you’re safe tonight, until we’ve sorted somewhere else for you. I’m going to take you to a lovely family, where you can get some sleep and something to eat. Your mum knows that we’re taking good care of you, so I need you to trust me. Do you have any questions, Tiffany?” I shake my head. I have at least seven million questions whizzing through my brain about what’s happening in my life and why my mum’s in a police station crying. And about what has actually happened and what Mikey did. And if someone from Sark will come and find me and if they do what will they be like. But all my questions are squashed together in the little worry bag that’s stuck in my throat. “Great then,” he says, standing up, yawning. “Let’s get you to bed.” Benita hands him my wheelie suitcase and takes Chardonnay from my lap. Chardonnay wriggles and yelps, trying to get back to me. She looks really worried about what’s happening, so I stroke her head to calm her down. I want to give her a kiss goodbye, but I can’t trust that my feelings won’t spill out all over the place. I give her one last pat, take a very deep breath to keep everything under control and stand up on my jelly legs. “I promise she’ll be well looked after,” calls Benita as we leave the room. Amida’s car smells of leather and peppermints. He offers me one but I shake my head, I don’t want it. He tucks a cosy blanket around me to warm me up and calm my chattering teeth, and does up my seatbelt to save me the trouble. “The people you’re going to be staying with are called Darren and Claudia – you’ll like them; they’ll be up waiting for us. I’ve already told them all about you.” He yawns. “It’s been a long old night for you, eh?” I don’t have any voice left tonight, not for anyone. And even if I did, why would I want to talk to some nosy old social worker about how I’m feeling and how long my night has been? It’s not like he’s really interested, is it? He’s just doing his job and trying to be kind. But I don’t need kind, I need my life back. What does he even expect me to say? Some sad old story about how my whole entire life has been ruined in one night, just so he can feel sorry for me? Or about how I’m starting to feel really angry with my mum? Well, whatever it is he wants from me he’s not getting it. No one is. My mouth is staying firmly zipped. “Here we are,” says Amida, parking the car in front of a big house, “I’ll come back to see you in the morning, Tiffany. I hope you sleep well.” A man wearing tracksuit bottoms and an old woolly jumper comes out of the house, followed by a lady in a pink-and-white spotted dressing gown. Amida pulls my wheelie suitcase from the boot of his car. “Thanks for this,” he says to them. “Sorry it’s such short notice.” The car door is opened for me and the lady, Claudia, helps me out. My legs feel heavy and I want to lie down. “Welcome, Tiffany,” she gushes, taking hold of me and guiding me along the dark path. “Let’s get you tucked up in bed shall we?” I hear Amida drive away and am left alone with two more new people to get used to. I follow them into the house and have some milk and biscuits without a fuss. Claudia takes me into a green bedroom that has a blue rug on the floor and a yellow teddy on the bed. She helps me into my pyjamas and carries on chatting away, not minding that I’m not joining in. I clean my teeth with weird-tasting toothpaste. “Night then, Tiffany,” says Darren, popping his head round the door. “We’re just in the room next to you, so if you need anything in the night, or if you’re worried and need to talk, just come and wake us up, OK?” Claudia’s soft hands tuck me in. She leaves my door open a bit so a sliver of landing light can peep its way in. Shadows hang on my walls and strange sounds creak and creep around me. New fabric-softener smells sit in my nose and tickle my face. And when it’s safe and quiet and there’s no one around, the tears sneak out of my eyes. They trickle at first and then a dark monster in my stomach lurches up and pushes hard. My face crumples like a stupid piece of rubbish paper and my voice wants to call out for my mum and Chardonnay. But I won’t let it call, and I won’t let it call for stupid Darren or stupid Claudia either. Instead, I bite hard on the yellow teddy and try to sleep. Chapter 8 (#ulink_ebeb06c4-9b4a-5678-8a9f-610cd4796097) today is not happening… I keep waking up in the night and have to keep reminding myself where I am. When I open my eyes in the morning Claudia is standing there. “Good morning, Tiffany,” she says, sitting on the edge of my bed. “Did you sleep well?” I shrug, ignore her questions, and try to find the safe place in my head where my life hasn’t been ruined. She doesn’t seem to mind that I’m not answering her and just carries on jabbering away. “Amida is popping back this morning, Tiffany, to have a chat and let you know what’s happening. Why don’t you have a shower and some breakfast and get yourself ready for the day?” She takes me out into the hallway and introduces me to the girl in the next room. “This is Matilda,” says Claudia, “she’s the same age as you. She’ll show you the ropes, OK?” “I only need to know where the shower is,” I say to Matilda when Claudia has gone. “I don’t need to see anything else. I’m being picked up soon.” Matilda steps forward and grabs my arm, hard. “Wake up, new girl,” she sneers. “We’re all here for ever. No one’s coming back for you, no one wants you around any more; this is the rubbish dump and you’ve been dumped here, just like the rest of us. So get used to it.” “You’re wrong,” I say, trying to stare her out, “someone is coming for me, soon.” But she’s good at staring, very good. She’s better than Chelsea, better than me. My stupid tummy turns to jelly again. Matilda pushes me into the bathroom, slams the door behind us and shows me her fist. “See this?” she says. “You just make sure you don’t get in my way, otherwise my fist might find itself bumping into your teeth.” “You won’t need to worry about me for long,” I brave, staring at her with hard eyes, to hide my fear. “I told you, I’m getting out of here soon. Very soon.” But she just makes a rude sign at me and walks out. I run the shower – hot. Is Matilda right? Am I on the rubbish dump for good? I wet a pink flannel in the hot water and bite the fluff hard while my body trembles and more tears sneak from my eyes. I panic that I might never be able to stop because my tears just keep coming and coming. I’m worried that Matilda is outside the door, listening with her big ugly ears. So I make the shower go freezing cold to wake me up and try to think about more happy stuff, like the old film, Singing in the Rain. I pretend I’m holding a big black umbrella and I tipadee-tap-dance around the shower and try to make myself smile. While I’m getting dressed I decide that today is actually not happening. I start rubbing all the horribleness out and try filling my mind with pictures of wonderful days and beautiful things. Like my mum on a good day when she’s all happy and we’re having a lovely time together at the funfair or the ice-skating rink. Like how happy she looks when she’s bought herself a new ring or when she’s spinning around on a pair of shiny, new high-heeled shoes in a cloud of special perfume. And I try to remember her soft face when we’re snuggling in bed together, sharing secrets. But scary pictures of my mum in a police cell, and Chardonnay in kennels, and Mikey with his fat cigars, and blue flashing lights, and peppermints, and a small island with an unknown family keep crowding in. Amida the social worker is a liar. He’s not coming to see me today like he promised. Instead he spoke to Darren on the phone and said that nothing much could be done with me until after the weekend, so I have to stay here until then. I’ve turned into a hot-potato problem that no one wants to touch. Matilda is right and I hate her for that. She makes a big fat ‘told you so’ face at me later on when we’re climbing into Darren’s car to go to the cinema. Then she ‘accidentally’ sticks her stupid clumsy foot out so that I trip and smash my shin on the cold metal. Nobody has noticed that I might not be in a cinema kind of mood. Or that it’s super-weird for me to be living in this stupid place. No one has mentioned the fact that my mum is locked behind a grey door, crying, or that I might be feeling left alone. The truth is a bad fart smell in the room that everyone is too polite to mention. None of the other kids is saying why they got left here on the rubbish dump either. Claudia waves us off, smiling, with a baby under her arm, like we’re her own children going out with our own dad. But I’ve never even been to the cinema with my own dad before, because I’ve never even seen him with my own eyes and I don’t even know his name, so it’s a stupid thing to pretend. I decide that Claudia is a liar too, just like everyone else in my new life. And I bet that when we’ve gone she just heaves a big sigh of relief because she’s getting rid of us all for a few hours. Everyone is pretending to be having a nice time with Darren and the helper person that’s come along with us, when they’d really rather be somewhere else. I want to watch the new ‘12’ film but I don’t trust Matilda’s fists in the dark. “I want to see the Disney film with the little ones,” I lie. “Are you sure?” asks Darren. I nod and Matilda sticks her thumb in her mouth and makes a stupid baby face at me. I pretend not to notice and get busy showing the little ones the big card-board Disney pictures in the foyer. Darren gets us some popcorn and some juice. He’s says Coke’s not allowed because it’s bad for us, but that’s what me and Mum always have, so I don’t see the problem, really. When the Disney colours flash across the screen I try to find a gentle place in my mind; a place that’s somewhere “Over the Rainbow”, with no blue flashing lights or Crimewatch or lost Mums or spiteful Matildas. A place where there’s no waiting or wondering what might happen to you and no pretending that you’re OK, when you really have an earthquake going on inside you all of the time. Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/kate-maryon/shine/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. 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