183 Times a Year (23 page)

CASSIE

I'm still fuming. I can't bloody believe what they did. “We cooked, so you clean.” Bloody cheek. And I wanted to go to Dollar Cove. Snot fair.

‘Arrggghh I'm so bloody angry,' I say to Maisy, as she
continues
to wash the dishes and I dry them. ‘I mean, what kind of godforsaken place doesn't have a dishwasher anyway? Standing here, drying bloody dishes for god bloody sake. This is supposed to be
my
bloody holiday. And yours too of course,' I add.

‘So?' Maisy replies, loudly chewing on the gum that never seems to leave her mouth.

‘So – duh – the clue is in the word,
holiday.
Here look.' I throw down my damp tea towel to extract my phone from my bra. ‘I'll look up the meaning of the word on my phone.'

‘Why do you keep your phone in your bra?' Maisy asks grinning at me.

‘Duh! Same reason you keep your fags there. So Mum can't get at it when she's having an eppy at me and threatening to ban me from using it of course.' Stupid bloody question.

I click on my internet browser and tap in the word
holiday.
I scroll down the list of meanings that have appeared. ‘Ah-ha, see, here it is.
Holiday – a period of time when one does not have to work.
See, I told you. And what are we both doing here, right now, on our first day…'

‘Oh fuck off Cassie. You and I both know we virtually do fuck all most of the time.'

‘Speak for your bloody self. I do the dishwasher at home and I put the washing machine on and I cook…'

‘Yeah, once in a blue bloody moon, and then don't we all have to hear about it for days on end.'

Maisy laughs. I laugh back and flick her with the tea towel that is now so damp I swear it's actually making the dishes wetter, not drier. It'd be just as well to let them dry by themselves really.

‘Besides,' Maisy continues. ‘If helping out here scores me a few brownie points then I'm happy to do it.'

‘Why?' I ask suspiciously.

‘No reason.' Maisy shrugs her shoulders. ‘I just think Lizzie
does
well loads and there's nothing wrong with us returning the favour.'

‘What?' I reply, nearly choking on the whole jammie biscuit I've just stuffed in my mouth. ‘You're usually moaning what a bitch she is.'

Maisy scowls at me. ‘No I'm not.' She pauses for a moment then swaps her scowl for a grin. ‘Well ok, yeah, maybe I do – sometimes – when she is being one. I don't always mean it though.'

We're quiet for a minute. Then, spookily, as if our thoughts are telepathetically linked – soul sisters rather than step-sisters – we both say together, at the same time, ‘We're worse!'

We piss ourselves laughing, but I still don't trust Maisy.

I look her straight in the eyes. She looks away. ‘You're up to something.'

‘Not.'

‘You are.'

‘Am NOT,' Maisy says through gritted teeth. ‘Now finish drying this lot while I have a shower.' She flicks my face with water and runs off.

Just coz she's a year older than me she always thinks she's the boss when Mum and Simon aren't around. Well, she's not. And she's not the bloody boss of me either. I'm drying these dishes coz
I
want to. Not coz
she
said so.

My suspicions are aroused though. Something doesn't add up here. She's being too nice about everything. I wait until I hear her turn the shower on then I creep up the stairs and into the bedroom she bagsied. I'm actually a bit pissed off coz her room's like way bigger than mine, and she doesn't have gross, disgusting curtains and bedding like me. They're actually a nice pink colour, which is wasted on her coz she only likes black.

I wander around the room, opening cupboards, lifting her duvet cover up and stepping over yesterday's clothes, already
thrown
across the floor, including her knickers. Eeeeewwww. Nothing looks dodgy or seems out of place though.

‘Arrrrrrggghhhh.' Maisy suddenly screams from the bathroom. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck,' she hollers. I run, panicking, into the hallway. She flings the bathroom door open and looks shocked.

‘What?' I ask bewildered. ‘What is it?'

‘The bloody shower's freezing!' she screams, shivering. ‘There's no bloody hot water left. They must have all used it this morning.'

She looks really grumpy as she hovers in the doorway, her jet-black hair dripping down her shoulders. The small towel she wears barely covers her.

Maisy looks at me warily. ‘Have you been in my room?'

‘No!'

‘What'd ya want then?'

‘Nothing. I rushed up to see why you were screaming.'

‘Okay, well, you can go back downstairs now,' she orders. She seems agitated but rooted to the spot.

‘What are you up to?'

Maisy looks straight at me, as if she's thinking about what to say, almost turning blue now coz she's shivering so much.

She sighs heavily. ‘Oh whatevs,' she finally says. ‘You can know.' There's a sound of resignation in her voice. I'm becoming more and more confused.

‘Know what?'

Maisy stares at me again, unsmiling. She really is quite pretty without all that black crap on her face.

‘I swear to god though,' she says in a voice laced with threat. ‘If you breathe one word about this to Dad or Lizzie, you'll be a dead fucking bitch. Right?' Maisy walks towards me waving a blue finger with a black painted nail in my face.

I step back from her, annoyed that she seems to be threatening me. ‘O bloody K, I s'pose!'

Maisy
takes a deep breath. ‘Right,' she says again. And with that she turns and heads for her bedroom. I watch her walk away from me. I'm confused. I thought she was going to tell me something?

My eyes follow and examine her body. I'm curious and secretly compare her body to mine. She has quite a thin neck and a back that seems way too small to carry the boulder holders she has to wear. Bitch. She certainly doesn't qualify for the Itsy Bitsy Booby Committee like me. Lucky cow. My eyes continue to wander, down her back and past the tiny towel covering her booty. Yes! She has cellulite too, at the top of her legs, just like me. And then I spot it.

‘Aaaarrrrrrgggghhhh,' I scream. ‘Oh my good fucking god. Is that for real? O M G!!!!'

Maisy turns back to look at me, grinning. ‘Pretty sick eh?' She looks really pleased with herself. My mouth falls open, and I don't seem to be able to close it again. Either she's really, really brave or really, really stupid. The smile on her face quickly disappears though and she suddenly becomes serious again.

‘NOT. A. FUCKING. WORD. THOUGH. Right?'

Chapter 19

SURPRISE!!

LIZZIE

Perhaps it's the perfect English summer night that is making me feel warm and contented inside. It's the kind of balmy evening that feels a rarity; especially after the disastrous summer we had last year. Then again, perhaps it's too much home-made wine and my rose tinted reading glasses, that I have decided, at least for the time being, not to put on a chain around my neck in the style of stuffy old librarian. Which leads me to observe that all is well with the world.

I could live like this
.

Dad is dozing in his chair, waking from time to time, laughing on cue, assuring everyone he is only
resting
his eyes. Mum, who looks a little tired to me, is also merrily drinking and people watching. Connor, who I fear is plotting something, is ensconced in a corner of the garden, whispering and chuckling with Summer and, as my eyes drink everything in, I notice that even the girls are pleasantly amiable and unusually chatty. Maisy in particular appears to be very fond of one of Sean's friends. Australian I think he is, given his accent. I haven't seen either of the girls on their phones for several hours now, which is indeed a minor miracle of sorts.

I sigh contentedly. Didn't someone say it's the moments that count? Well right here, right now, I'm drunk on the contentment of this moment. Sipping my wine I look up at the old farmhouse that is home to Sean, Natasha and Summer. Although slightly
dilapidated
and in need of major repair work, it does look particularly charming on this warm summer night. Tell-tale cracks of subsidence have all but disappeared under the veil of the night sky and the flaking paint only adds to its rustic charm.

We are all outside, gathered around the solid wooden table hand-crafted by Sean himself. A table that only an hour earlier beheld a banquet fit for a king; a feast of home grown produce including, of course, sumptuous English strawberries with a generous helping of clotted Cornish cream. Home-made paper lanterns rock gently in the tepid breeze and the waves of the sea, although a couple of miles away ripple and break gently in the distance.

I look towards the end of the table and Simon, who I fear is slightly more inebriated than me, is deep in conversation with Sean and his friends. Sean has grown a small beard since I last saw him. Its dirty blonde in colour and perfectly matches the dreadlocks that fall down his back. His face, set against his simple white shirt, appears more tanned than it actually is and the vivid colours of his tattooed arms flicker and dance in the subdued candlelight. They say first impressions count and anyone would be forgiven for thinking that someone of Sean's appearance, lifestyle and as one that introduces his nearest and dearest friends as Radical Rick, Dangerous Dave and Crazee, was perhaps of limited intelligence. This really couldn't be further from the truth and once again our hospitable host proves to be a salient, well-informed raconteur who carries himself with great aplomb.

Natasha wanders over with more wine and pulls up a chair next to Mum and myself. She has a very earthy, yet ethereal presence. Perpetually calm, I don't think I've ever seen her lose her temper; then again she doesn't have to live with two tortuous teenagers. Her white dress, seasonally floaty, is elegant yet simple, and her long blonde hair hangs freely down her back.
Her
barely-there make-up is minimalist. A dab of lip-gloss and one coat of mascara at the most.

‘Hey Ellie,' Natasha says to Mum, ‘you okay? You look tired?'

‘I'm fine Natasha, really I am,' Mum replies in her no-nonsense tone.

‘Well, you know if the radiotherapy hasn't … doesn't work,' Nat continues. ‘You should think about taking Cannabis oil. It's supposed to cure cancer you know?

Mind you it isn't cheap,' she says frowning, ‘and this bloody place is a money pit.' She looks up at the house. ‘Bloody freezing in the winter it was, and leaks? I think the whole house was one big leak. We had buckets everywhere,' she exclaims. ‘So anyway, unfortunately we couldn't afford to buy it for you, the cannabis oil that is, but Sean has, shall we say an eclectic group of friends.' She laughs and nods her head in the direction of Dangerous Dave; an intriguing name for one of such slight, almost boyish physique. ‘I'm sure he could help us out if you wanted some. You know, mates' rates and all that.' Natasha laughs again. It's a soft, alluring laugh that flows like warm honey and is pleasantly contagious. Mum giggles and I follow suit.

‘Why's he called Dangerous Dave anyway?' Mum asks, her furrowed brow marked with curiosity. ‘To tell you the truth, I wasn't entirely sure if he was a she if you know what I mean.' Nat and I laugh and Dad opens one eye and smirks.

Mum's tone is suddenly defensive. ‘Well,' she continues. ‘It just seems like anything goes these days. Boys want to be girls, girls want to be boys. Then there are those men, I forget what you call them, the kind that seem to be both?'

‘He-shes,' Dad exclaims, now opening both eyes.

Mum shoots him a look of alarm. ‘How do you know?' Dad smirks and closes both eyes again.

Natasha
raises her hand slightly and waves it from left to right. ‘Swings both ways,' she whispers.

Mum looks a little taken aback for a second. ‘Well, live and let live I say. It all just gets very confusing though sometimes. Things seemed a lot simpler when I was younger. Anyway, you still haven't explained why he's dangerous?'

‘Well,' Natasha lowers her voice to a whisper again. ‘You see that rucksack that never leaves his side? Let's just say it contains a number of legal and illegal substances. He's dangerous because there's nothing the man can't get hold of.' Mum looks suitably shocked. ‘Sooooo…' Natasha pauses, nodding in Mum's direction, ‘if we need some cannabis oil, Dave's your man.'

Mum purses her lips, her expression suddenly severe. Is she offended? ‘I've never tried weed,' she suddenly blurts out. I look across at her, surprised.

‘Put it on your bucket list,' Dad says opening one eye again.

‘I've tried it,' I confess.

‘When?' Mum asks.