The Glitter Collection. Kate Maryon
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.
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