Shine

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.