Chocolate Box Girls Read online

  Honey smiles, a soft, sweet smile that almost has me believing her. I can see a couple of the new goldfish, gliding around beneath the surface, almost unseen, and I wonder what’s going on beneath the surface with Honey.

  Nothing good, I suspect.

  ‘But … the split was three years ago. They’re divorced, aren’t they? I mean, it’s all final and everything …’

  Honey rolls her eyes. ‘The divorce was a mistake. Dad was just angry with Mum … he loves us, all of us. We’re going to be a family again.’

  I have a feeling that most of this is wishful thinking – if Greg Tanberry was planning a big family reunion, wouldn’t he be sending flowers and calling round and trying to put things right? From what I have heard, he is holed up in a luxury London flat and hasn’t been near Kitnor since the day he was thrown out.

  ‘I don’t think Charlotte wants that,’ I say gently.

  Honey curls her lip. ‘You’d be surprised. Paddy is so not her type, trust me. My dad is a proper businessman, with Armani suits and sports cars and a gold watch … your dad worked in a chocolate factory! And don’t even think about telling me that rubbish about him being a manager, because I asked him myself and he said his job was picking out the reject chocolate bars. I don’t think you need to be a manager to do that!’

  My cheeks burn, and I look away.

  ‘Trust me,’ Honey goes on. ‘My dad is the real deal. He makes Paddy look like a … a gypsy!’

  I think of Mrs Mackie’s song about the raggle-taggle gypsies and the DVD we watched the other day, Chocolat, and I think that sometimes a man who looks like a gypsy may be exactly what you might dream of. I have seen Charlotte look at Dad, and I think that she loves him almost as much as I do … it’s one of the reasons I think she’s so cool.

  ‘My dad is a high-flyer,’ Honey ploughs on. ‘He works really hard. All hours, seven days a week. That’s why I can’t just phone him whenever I like, because he could be in the middle of some big business meeting. That’s why he can’t always come down here and see us, and why he sometimes has to cancel if we’re going up to London to see him …’

  I bite my lip. If Honey is trying show me how much better her dad is than mine, it’s not working. All I can see is a flashy, shallow bloke who puts work ahead of his daughters, but Honey sees it all through rose-coloured glasses. She loves her dad, though, and that’s something I do know about.

  ‘Look, Honey,’ I say carefully, ‘I know you don’t think much of me, but we do have one thing in common. You’ve lost someone you love, and that happened to me too, with my mum … it hurts. It hurts a lot.’

  Honey rolls her eyes. ‘I haven’t lost my dad,’ she says scathingly. ‘What does that even mean? You make it sound like I’ve mislaid him, like I’ve been careless somehow and forgotten where he is! I know where my dad is and trust me, he isn’t lost. It’s a totally different situation.’

  There’s a stab of pain inside my chest and I tilt my chin up defiantly, determined not to show it. Honey knows about my mum – she must do – but she doesn’t care. I will never find any common ground with her, that much is clear. If the two of us were shipwrecked on a desert island, she’d probably jump into the ocean and start swimming, just to get away from me.

  I get up off the grass, head held high, cheeks burning. Every part of me is trembling with hurt and anger, but I can’t let Honey see that … I won’t.

  ‘Cherry?’

  I meet her eyes, waiting for the next attack, but it doesn’t come.

  ‘I am sorry about your mum,’ she says quietly. ‘I’m not a total bitch, you know.’

  My eyes open wide and I can’t think of anything to say, anything at all. Did I just find a chink in Honey’s armour? Maybe she has a heart, after all … and maybe there is hope for us yet.

  Or maybe not.

  ‘This isn’t personal, OK?’ she says. ‘I just want to make sure you know. For everyone’s sake. The truth is, my mum’s just using Paddy to make Dad jealous. So … now you know. And there’s really no point in us trying to get along, Cherry, because you probably won’t even be here by this time next week. OK?’

  I turn and walk away.

  18

  I haven’t seen Shay for a week – not properly, not alone. That’s a good thing, I know, even though it doesn’t feel that way.

  The first few nights I lie awake at night, waiting for a knock on the caravan door that never comes. After another few days of no-show, I tell myself I’m glad. I stop expecting him, stop hoping, decide it’s for the best because the two of us have no future anyhow. This is the way it has to be.

  When I do see Shay, though, calling for Honey to take her to some get-together, or lazing in the hammock in the warm summer evenings or inviting himself for tea yet again, it’s like a twist of the knife. My stomach churns and my heart races and I have to look away before the whole world catches on that I am crushing on my stepsister’s boyfriend.

  I think of Honey, sitting on the window seat in her turret room, the thick rope of plait hanging over her shoulder, waiting. I always imagined she was waiting for her prince, for Shay, but now I think that she’s waiting for someone else entirely, someone smooth and slick and always out of reach.

  She’s waiting for a dad who will never come home. She’s living in a fantasy world, and that is something I know all about … after all, I’ve done it myself for long enough. I lived so much in a world of dreams and lies that I forgot to pay much attention to the present, but now, for the first time ever, I have a present that’s worth living in, worth fighting for.

  I am not about to put all that in danger just because I have fallen for a boy who belongs to someone else.

  I have done a lot of thinking, and no matter how I add it all up, the answers come out the same. Crushing on a boy who has a girlfriend is bad news, and when that girlfriend happens to be your new stepsister you are looking at the kind of scenario that could easily spark off World War Three. I can’t stand the guilt and I can’t stand the waiting and I seriously cannot stand the longing, the dreaming, for a boy who is way out of bounds.

  It’s time to take control.

  I have made a decision. I will not be telling stories in the dark any more, weaving pictures around my past, bringing memories back to life while a blond-fringed boy listens and strums his blue guitar. In fact, there will be no more stories, full stop. It is not a good plan.

  Shay Fletcher and me, we’re over. Not that we ever really started, of course.

  When Shay comes calling round to the caravan, a few nights later, I am ready.

  He knocks on the door, raps on the glass of the little window. ‘Cherry?’ he whispers. ‘It’s me! Are you awake?’

  Fred whines and whimpers and tries to run over to the door, but I hold his collar tightly and pull the quilt over my head. I lie silent and still, until the knocking stops and I hear the sound of footsteps moving away through the grass, and then I cry myself to sleep.

  The next morning, I am coming out of the caravan when I see a small, torn square of creamy paper speared on to a branch of the cherry tree above my head. I stretch up and take down the little square of paper, smooth it out.

  Written across it in blotchy black pen are three lines of scruffy, spidery writing:

  A silk kimono

  Flutters in the treetops

  Scent of jasmine and tears

  My heart flips over and my cheeks flame. Shay Fletcher.

  I sink down on to the caravan steps. Do friends leave each other Japanese haiku, hanging on trees in the middle of the night? I don’t think so. Guilt and hope curl together inside me, replaced by determination.

  How come doing the right thing sometimes feels so wrong?

  Does Shay Fletcher vanish from my life? I wish.

  Suddenly he is everywhere … watching DVDs in the evening, curled up on the blue velvet sofas, making himself late-night cheese sandwiches
in the kitchen, lounging in the hammock with his blue guitar.

  ‘Where were you?’ he asks quietly, the first time we cross paths. ‘I called for you the other night, but I don’t think you were there …’

  I can’t meet his eyes. ‘I was there,’ I tell him.

  ‘I guess you were sleeping,’ he says hopefully. ‘I should have knocked louder.’

  ‘I wasn’t sleeping,’ I whisper. ‘I just thought … well, it’s not such a good idea, is it? Us being friends. And besides … do friends write poetry for each other?’

  Shay exhales, blowing upwards at the blond fringe. ‘What poetry?’ he bluffs.

  ‘Come on, Shay. I know it was you. It had to be you.’

  ‘Didn’t you like it?’ he asks.

  ‘I didn’t say I didn’t like it!’ I argue. ‘I do like it … I’m just saying. Us being friends … it’s not gonna work.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. Stay away … I mean it, Shay.’

  I expect him to argue, to challenge me, try to talk me round, but he doesn’t. He just smiles at me sadly, his eyes accusing, as if I’ve done something awful, like set fire to his black beanie hat or flicked chewing gum into his fringe.

  Luckily, where Shay is, Honey is never far behind. She glides up silently, shark-like.

  ‘Come on,’ she says to Shay. ‘We’ve got things to do …’ She hooks an arm through his and tows him away.

  There is no escape, though – or not for long.

  Even in the daytime, when Shay is meant to be safely out of the way, working at his holiday job at the sailing centre, he still manages to appear. I am down at the beach with the twins, yelping and shrieking and splashing around in the waves with Skye, when out of nowhere, Shay drifts past in a canoe with a flotilla of tourists in orange life jackets bobbing along behind him.

  ‘Hey!’ he yells and lifts an oar in greeting, splashing us with silvery spray. I can’t help noticing that he is still wearing his black beanie hat, even though the sun is beating down. I cannot see the blue guitar, but it’s quite possible he has it stashed away inside the canoe.

  I duck under the water until he and his crew have splashed on out of sight round the bay, then retreat to the safety of the sand, where Summer is stretched out reading a ballet book.

  ‘That boy is everywhere,’ I tell her crossly. ‘It’s like he haunts this place. Hasn’t he got a home of his own?’

  ‘Shay does spend a lot of time at Tanglewood,’ she admits. ‘When he’s not working, that is. Mum sometimes jokes that we’ve adopted him.’

  ‘That’s all I need,’ I huff.

  ‘His charm doesn’t work on you, does it?’ she says, and I sigh because of course Shay’s charm works much too well on me and there is no way on earth I can let that show.

  ‘Weird,’ Summer says. ‘Girls are usually all over Shay Fletcher like a rash. All my friends are crushing on him. He’s kind and friendly and sort of flirty. I mean, I don’t feel that way about him. Obviously … he’s just Honey’s boyfriend … but I do like him. He has this way of talking to you like you’re the only one in the room. Know what I mean?’

  ‘No,’ I bluff. ‘Not really. And why does he have to lead his canoe expeditions right past here? This bay is meant to be private!’

  Skye wades out of the water, wrapping herself in a towel, and pads across to join us.

  ‘I wish!’ Summer is saying. ‘The beach is public property, Cherry. Anyone can walk past, or swim or sunbathe or picnic. And Shay is taking grockles round to the smugglers’ caves, it’s a part of his job … all the tourists want to see them.’

  ‘The caves are our local tourist attraction,’ Skye agrees, flopping down on to the sand. ‘You can’t actually drive there or even walk there very easily … they’re cut off by rocks and cliffs on both sides, so there’s this perfect bay that is only properly accessible by boat. The smugglers landed their contraband and hid it in the caves, and the customs and excise men could never find them. No wonder this area did so well with smuggling in the past!’

  ‘What did they smuggle, exactly?’

  ‘Everything, pretty much,’ Skye shrugs. ‘Brandy and gin and silk and cotton and coffee and tea … there used to be really big taxes for importing stuff in those days, and the smugglers were bringing things in without having to pay the taxes. All the locals were in on it. They cut this really steep, secret pathway up the hillside, through the woods, to get the stuff out … they’d keep what they wanted and take the rest up to the towns and cities to make a profit. It was big business.’

  I lie back on the warm sand and close my eyes, trying to imagine smugglers in stripy sailor tops rolling barrels of brandy across the beach and hiding out in dark, damp caves. But in my dream, the smuggler turns round and he’s wearing a black beanie hat and carrying a blue guitar, and I know then that there is no escape for me, and no hope, not ever.

  19

  If you want to forget someone, you have to stay busy, that’s what the teen mags say. You have to work, as hard as you possibly can, to keep your mind off your crush. And a crush, of course, is all that this is. It’s not like it is anything more, anything real, anything serious.

  A crush, according to the teen mags, is a one-way love affair. The boy you are crushing on invades your dreams, your head, your heart. You think about him first thing in the morning and last thing at night, and you imagine a million different ways you can be together, but it’s all for nothing, because he is out of reach. Usually, that means he is a movie star or a rock god or some local heart-throb who doesn’t even know you are alive, but of course, things are more complicated for me.

  So I am staying busy, and hoping that the crush will fade. I am doing my best to do the right thing, even though I secretly want to do the wrong thing.

  I am trying.

  Dad is making progress with the old stable block, running pipes along from the main water supply and hiring a cement mixer to lay a new concrete floor. He shovels in the concrete single-handed, smoothing and levelling until everything looks perfect. A few days later, a big stainless steel sink is delivered and Dad plumbs it in himself, then fits a roll of shiny red lino and installs a huge worktable bought on the cheap from Ikea. I never knew my dad could do those things, and even he is looking surprised and pleased with himself.

  He gives the walls and ceiling two coats of white paint, and suddenly the whole space begins to look bright and airy and cool.

  He still has flecks of white paint in his hair when he puts on his one and only suit to go to the bank and ask about a loan for the chocolate business. Charlotte is going too, of course, looking cool and quirky in a green-print dress with a velvet jacket and jade nail varnish.

  Together they look clever and creative and slightly bohemian, but the business plan Dad has tucked under his arm in a smart black folder is logical and detailed and perfectly planned. The two of them have done their research, and spent every evening over the last week or so putting it all together. There are profit and loss predictions, and artwork samples for the boxes, and a brand-new logo for The Chocolate Box that looks amazing.

  If all that does not convince the bank, then the handpainted box, wrapped with ribbon and filled with freshly made truffles, should swing it.

  ‘We’ve got a great plan,’ Dad says. ‘And we’ve got a pure, dead brilliant product. All we need now is one small loan to get us up and running!’

  Charlotte straightens Dad’s tie and tucks his shirt in for him, I hug them both, and they get into the little red minvan.

  ‘Wish us luck!’ Dad grins. Skye and Summer, who have been left in charge of the B&B for the morning, come out on the step to see them off, and Coco wanders over from the direction of the duck enclosure, with four sleek, black runner ducks at her heels, waving.

  The only person who doesn’t appear is Honey but, of course, she doesn’t wish them luck anyhow. She probably wishes them plague, pestilence and disaste
r.

  The red minivan crunches away across the gravel.

  ‘Good luck!’ I yell, waving until they are out of sight.

  ‘I’m keeping everything crossed for them,’ Skye says. ‘Fingers, toes, eyes …’

  So much depends on this meeting. Dad and Charlotte need this bank loan to get the chocolate business off the ground, but plans for the Chocolate Festival are rolling forward anyway.

  Charlotte has called the organizers of the Food Trail to tell them about The Chocolate Box and the festival. They loved the idea, and agreed to add it to the brochure and the Food Trail map, which have just gone off to be printed. There is no backing out now. Like it or not, on the last weekend in August, Tanglewood will be invaded by dozens of tourists.

  ‘I’m going to paint a banner for the festival,’ Skye announces, heading back into the house to unload the dishwasher. ‘And we can make bunting and string it all around the garden and set stalls out under the trees. Mum says maybe we can have picnic tables and chairs like a kind of outdoor cafe, and sell hot chocolate with marshmallows and chocolate milkshakes and chocolate ice-cream sundaes …’

  ‘We can make our Cherry Chocolate Cola Cake,’ Summer says, stacking the crockery away in the dresser. ‘That’s gorgeous. And Coco can do chocolate fridge-cake, the kind that doesn’t need any cooking …’

  ‘How about a chocolate fountain for one of the stalls?’ I chip in. ‘I saw one at the big Thorntons shop in Glasgow, once. People could dip strawberries and marshmallows and things into it. That would be cool!’

  Summer grins. ‘Brilliant! My friend Evie got one of those for her birthday, I’m sure she’d let us borrow it. I’ll ask!’

  Once we have tidied the kitchen, we head upstairs to make up two of the rooms for new guests arriving later. Skye and I shake a crisply ironed duvet cover down over one of the quilts while Summer pirouettes around the bedroom with a feather duster.