Читать книгу The Glitter Collection - Kate Maryon, Kate Maryon - Страница 11

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.