Shine. Kate Maryon
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.
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