Shine (2 page)

craaaaaaazy about tiffany’s…

W
hen 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.

you’re such a little worry guts…

“
Q
uick, 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.

there’ll be bluebells over the white cliffs of Dover…

M
ikey’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.

“Yay!” shrieks Mum, frantically jiggling my hand up and down. “Freedom, Tiff! Freedom!”

Suddenly, some policemen step in front of the car and wave us over to one side. Mikey starts tap, tap, tapping on the steering wheel again and Mum starts fidgeting with her hair.

“Just a routine check, sir,” says one of the policemen, leaning into the front window. “May we take another look at your passports, please?”

“Is this completely necessary?” says Mikey. “We need
to board the ferry as soon as,” he says, waving a hand toward me. “The kid needs the toilet; know what I mean?”

“I’m afraid it is necessary, sir, and we’ll get you on board as soon as we can.”

I feel really awake now, because something’s not right. All the other cars are driving past us and climbing the ramp to board the ferry. But we’re stuck here with policemen asking us questions. It’s late and I want to be at home, asleep next to Chelsea, dreaming of
The Wizard of Oz
and Shirley Temple cocktails. I wish my mum had never had this stupid idea in the first place. I don’t even
want
to go on holiday. I want my normal Saturday with Chels and me cosying up in bed, watching TV and eating ice cream straight from the tub. With Mum and me, together, wandering through the shops and buying cool stuff. Getting dressed up in new clothes and having lunch out, like ladies do. And we’d planned to take Chardonnay to the park. Everything is going wrong.

The policeman looks at me, scratches his head, and then turns to Mikey. “Are you the registered keeper of this vehicle, sir?”

“Yes mate,” says Mikey, tapping and tapping. “It’s all in order, officer, I just bought it from my brother-in-law, he must have forgotten to send off the papers.”

The policeman scratches his head again and I wonder if he has nits, like Chels and I had in the summer. “If you’d like to get out of the vehicle, sir, and step this way.”

Mikey groans and opens the door. Mum lets out a wounded-dog squeal and starts rocking backwards and forwards humming the white cliffs of Dover song. Then we’re surrounded by blue flashing lights, and I know that
Crimewatch
was true and that Chelsea was right. A large ball of worry drops into my tummy and wobbles around, and a sharp lump sticks in my throat. I start tap, tap, tapping and humming the white cliffs of Dover song too because now I really know that my mum’s in trouble. Big trouble. And what about me?

All the doors are pulled open. There are policemen everywhere and handcuffs are snapped on to Mikey and Mum.

“Mum!” I call from the back seat, “Mum, what’s happening?”

“It’s all right, babe, Mama’s here, no worries,” her voice trembles as someone guides her towards a police car. “You and me,
Tiff,” she calls through the rain.

“You and me, Mum.” I call back, panicking. “You and me.”

I watch my mum pulling and struggling against the policemen. She starts screaming at them and fighting, and I wish they knew how to soothe her tantrums.

A lady police officer climbs into the car and sits next to me. “I’m Benita,” she says. “What’s your name, love?”

“Tiffany,” I sniff. “What’s happening to my mum?”

“I’m really sorry, Tiffany,” she says, handing me a tissue, “we have to take your mum and dad into custody for a bit. There’s some stuff that’s happened and we just need to check it all out.” She’s trying to sound cheerful and reassuring. “We’ll have you all back together as soon as we can.”

“He’s not my dad,” I say, “he’s my mum’s business partner.”

Then, before I know it, I’m in a police car, and my little wheelie suitcase is in the back. My mum’s in another car being driven away from me, with blue lights flashing. I don’t even know where Dover is and I need the toilet and Chardonnay is wriggling in the bag. The large ball
keeps rolling around in my tummy, making me feel like I’m going to be sick. I can’t stop my hand tap, tap, tapping on the car window and the white cliffs of Dover song is spinning through my mind, like it’s got stuck in my brain.

“Where are you from, Tiffany?” Benita asks.

“London,” I say.

“Is there anyone we can call for you, love? Your dad, maybe, or grandparents, aunts or uncles, friends?”

“There’s my school friend, Chelsea,” I sniff, “but her dad’s really angry with my mum.”

“Anyone else?”

I shake my head. “No one,” I say. “Just me and Mum.”