Shine

“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 diamanté 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.