The Baking Life of Amelie Day (10 page)

Dear Mel, You sound nice so I thought I’d give you one of my recipes. This is how you make it. You take one amazing, special girl with CF and you introduce her to a stupid idiot boy who forgets about all the good times that he has had with the amazing girl. Throw in his complete obsession with her awesome cupcakes and mix up together. The end result should be that the girl and the boy live together in perfect harmony, only the boy’s got the recipe a bit wrong and has caused it to burn. Or curdle. Or whatever cake mix does – I mean, how would I know? I’m into sports, right? Anyway, hope you can use the recipe. Oh – and – SORRY. Hx

My eyes well up with tears. I look at the date – yesterday.

Then I pick up my mobile phone and wait for his lovely kind voice to answer.

***

Something happens to me that evening.

After I speak to Harry and he says he’s missed me and he’s sorry (again), I feel all fired up and strange and a little bit reckless.

Mum has come back home laden with shopping bags and we get out all the clothes she’s bought and try them on. She’s got me some new black leggings and a pretty summer tunic top in white with red roses on it.

‘It’s brilliant, Mum,’ I say, twirling in front of the mirror and then stopping to cough. ‘Thanks. And I’m sorry I’ve been a nightmare daughter this week.’

‘Only this week?’ says Mum, but her eyes are glinting in a naughty sort of way. She’s bought cream cakes home too and we devour them at the kitchen table with a cup of proper coffee and for once we don’t talk about how my own recipes would be better or about CF or the competition or school, but just enjoy cramming the pastry into our mouths and licking the cream off our lips.

‘It’s good having a daughter who doesn’t tell me off about extra calories,’ says Mum, reaching for another cake and undoing her brown leather belt. ‘I might even order a Chinese later too. What do you think?’

‘Great,’ I say, but I’m not really listening.

I don’t know whether it’s the cake, or the kindness of all the strangers with their recipes, or the fact I’ve been resting at home for days, or that Harry was so sweet on the phone and I’m relieved that we’re going out again, or maybe even that deep down I realise I might be on course to a lung transplant and am going to be out of action for ages – but my brain is doing all these strange, devious little things that I can’t voice to Mum. The more I try and ignore them, the bigger and more powerful they seem to get, until I feel like I’m going to burst if I don’t go upstairs to my bedroom and give them some serious thought.

‘I’m tired,’ I lie as we clear up. ‘Might go to bed for a bit. I’ll get up for supper, don’t worry.’

‘Oh,’ says Mum. Her jolly voice has faded back to the concerned one again. ‘Are you sure you’re OK? You never go to bed in the day.’

‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘I’m just going to lie on the bed and watch TV in my room, that’s all.’

‘Ah, right,’ says Mum. Her smile returns. ‘One of your dreadful teen soaps, no doubt.’

‘Of course,’ I say. ‘Or a cookery programme. That’s new, right?’

Mum laughs and takes her bags upstairs. I follow her and go into my room.

I shut the door and wait until she’s gone downstairs again and I hear her chatting on the phone to my grandmother.

Then I lift the lid of the laptop and start to hatch my plan.

Chapter Ten

For the next five days I go about my usual business, but I’ve got this bubbling excitement inside me and it’s all I can do not to blurt it out to anybody.

It’s like the secret I’m carrying around has given me a new burst of energy. I stay at school full-time all week and I take part in another football match and only need my inhaler once after the game and not before like I usually do. I go to the cinema with Harry after school on the Monday and I sit all snuggled up under his arm in the back row and I feel like I might die from happiness and excitement rather than from CF, which is a new way of looking at things.

I update my blog when I get home from seeing Harry, before I do my tedious physio session on the bed.

I chew my pen and think carefully about the words I am going to use. I mean – what if Mum saw my blog? Not that she ever would. But just in case. So I just write this:

Hi, it’s Amelie here. I haven’t really got an update about the competition because like I said before, Mum has made it clear that I can’t go to London because it would be bad for my health.

And because I know she’s right, I probably ought to listen to her… probably…

I leave it at that. When I log on again an hour later, there’s a reply from a girl called Jen. It says:

Whoo-hoo, girl! I’m sensing a cake rebellion. Keep us posted, won’t you? Jen. P.S. My chocolate fondant sunk like a stone so I won’t put a picture of it here.

Somewhere deep inside me a little voice is telling me that I’m storing up harm for myself by throwing myself around as if there was nothing wrong with me, but I choose to ignore it.

Mum is pleased to see me being so much more energetic, but when she thinks I’m not looking, I catch her giving me puzzled glances and then almost speaking but thinking better of it.

At the end of the week she’s obviously decided she can’t keep it to herself any longer.

We’re sitting in front of the television devouring a plate of my strawberry and banana muffins and watching a comedy that we both like. When the adverts come on, Mum leans forward and clicks the mute button on the remote.

‘Amelie,’ she says, turning to me with a frown. She’s wearing a fluffy pink dressing gown and slippers and her hair is up in a towel. Mum always has Bath Night on a Friday when she gets home from work. I’m still wearing my school uniform, but I’ve removed the horrid tie and black patent shoes and let my blouse hang out over my skirt.

‘What?’ I say. I haven’t really been concentrating on the telly. My head is a blur of ideas, plans and a fair number of devious lies that I am going to have to tell pretty soon.

‘Well,’ says Mum. ‘I just wondered if there’s anything going on that you’re not telling me about? Because since the annual review you’ve been kind of jumpy and restless and although you’re eating and sleeping and looking better, I’m wondering if some of it’s a bit of an act?’

Our programme comes back on and I make a move towards the remote, but Mum grabs it from me and puts it under her bottom.

‘Health is more important,’ she says. ‘So? I’m waiting.’

A whole load of conflicting thoughts are crashing about in my head. Part of me badly wants to tell Mum. Even though she drives me mad at times, she’s still the person who is most on my side in the whole world, more even than Harry. He doesn’t see me at my worse, when I’m being sick and hooked up to machines and yelling at Mum out of misery and frustration. Mum has seen it all for years and years and she is still here caring for me.

But if I tell her she will morph into The CF Police again and my plan will be trampled into the mud.

I play for time by reaching out for another muffin and dissecting it into soft lumps on my plate. I’ve used giant, moist strawberries and bananas just at the peak of their ripeness, along with a load of butter and sugar from Karim’s shop. I managed to do two hours after school last night and didn’t need to sit down and catch my breath for once.

‘Amelie,’ she says. ‘Will you just tell me what’s going on, for God’s sake? I wouldn’t mind going to bed this side of midnight.’

Uh-oh. Mum getting sarcastic is never a good sign. It’s usually followed by a flare-up of anger and the slamming of doors.

I stretch and give her my best smile.

‘Nothing is going on,’ I say. ‘I’m just happy. I’m back with Harry and I feel a bit better. I’m allowed to be happy, aren’t I?’

Mum’s face softens. She reaches out and touches my hair.

‘Of course, love,’ she says. ‘I just want you to know that you can always talk to me. About, you know, the way that CF makes you feel. OK?’

‘OK,’ I say, eating the last bit of muffin and slurping down my hot chocolate. Mum’s put a swirl of cream and some chocolate flakes on top just to get in as many calories as possible.

‘Night,’ says Mum, getting up. ‘Oh – you’ve had your Creon? And done your breathing?’

I give a deep, impatient sigh.

‘Yeah, yeah,’ I say. ‘I don’t want Tom to give me another lecture.’

Mum smiles and clicks off the kitchen light.

‘Oh – and Amelie,’ she says as she starts going upstairs. ‘Don’t forget that we’re going to hospital on Monday for you to have your gastrostomy fitted. I’ve told the school you’ll be off for a couple of days.’

‘Righty ho,’ I say. Then I wonder why I’ve said that. I sound about ninety. It’s hard to get Mum off my case sometimes.

I go upstairs to my room and shut the door.

Then I perch in the middle of the bed and log onto my laptop. I put in my passwords and check my online savings account.

‘Wow,’ I say. There’s five hundred pounds in there, from various birthday and Christmas presents. I hardly ever buy clothes or make-up, like most of the girls in my class, and I get my ingredients from Karim so I don’t often need to buy too many of them either.

‘Good,’ I say to myself. ‘That should cover everything.’

I get under the duvet, but it’s hot and I’m too fired up to sleep so after a while I get up again and find a book but I can’t even concentrate on that.

In the end I just lie on top of the duvet staring up at the white ceiling and practising recipes in my head until I must have fallen asleep, because I wake up in the same position six hours later and it’s Saturday.

Mornings are not good when you’ve got CF. All the gunk in your chest seems to get harder and thicker overnight and you wake up with a heavy, clogged feeling that’s difficult to shift.

I stay on the bed and do my breathing cycle for forty minutes until I’ve pushed loads of mucus up out of my airways. When I first started doing the physio myself, forty minutes felt like a lifetime to be trapped on a bed without getting up, but now I hardly notice. Then I rest for five minutes, swing my legs over the side of the bed and get dressed in my leggings, a white tunic top and silver ballet shoes. I brush my long black hair and let it fall over my shoulders. I study my face in the mirror. I’m always pale because of my CF, but today there’s a tiny flush of colour in my cheeks.

I’m meeting Gemma in town and I’m going to let her in on my secret.

It’s a big one.

And I need her help.

***

‘You’re crazy,’ says Gemma.

We’re sitting in McDonalds and stuffing burgers and chips. I’ve got two burgers both with cheese on and a double portion of fries and a strawberry milkshake. Gemma’s got some weird chicken burger with salad in it and a small portion of fries.

I click the plastic lid off my milkshake and stir the thick gloop around with my red straw.

‘I’m not crazy,’ I say. ‘I’m just ambitious. I need to do this. It’s part of the rest of my life, what’s left of it.’

Gemma screws up her face and nibbles on the end of a chip.

‘Your mum is going to kill you anyway when she finds out,’ she says. ‘So I reckon you won’t need to worry about CF shortening your life any longer.’

‘Ha ha,’ I say, but my determined smile is fading. I’ve been trying not to picture Mum’s face when she finds out. I can’t afford to think about it. If I do, I’ll be swamped with horrid guilt and have to call the whole thing off. Besides, it’s too late now. I’ve gone so far with the planning that I couldn’t go back now even if I wanted to.

‘What did you want me to do?’ says Gemma. ‘Because I’m not so sure I should be backing you up on this. What about if you get really sick and there’s nobody to help you? Maybe I should come with.’

I pull a piece of slimy lettuce out of my burger and sigh. If I was making this same meal at home I’d have done the burger out of lean beef and shaped into thick, juicy rounds. I’d have served it in a home-made bun with masses of organic roast tomatoes and with loads of good French mustard.

‘Never mind the burger,’ says Gemma, reading my mind. She knows me so well. ‘Do you want me to come with you?’

I put down my burger and switch to the fries instead. They’re OK, I suppose, but they don’t really taste of potato, just of fat and salt. Still, it’s all calories. I shovel them in and give Gemma my best smile.

‘That’s really nice of you,’ I say. ‘But then my mother will kill you as well, or probably your own mother will kill you. So there would be two tragic deaths. Maybe we ought to keep it to just one, yeah?’

I expect Gemma to laugh, but she looks mournful and pushes the remains of her meal in my direction.

‘I wish you didn’t have CF,’ she says. ‘It sucks.’

‘You’re telling me,’ I say, biting into her chicken burger and pulling a face at the dry, stringy chicken inside the bun. ‘But there’s not much I can do about that. Except I really, really want to do this. And I need you to pretend that I’m coming round yours on Sunday night to do homework. OK?’

Gemma nods.

‘OK,’ she says. ‘But when your mum realises, she’s going to call me, isn’t she? What do I say then?’