Chocolate Box Girls: Sweet Honey Page 10

  ‘OK. If you’re never wrong, explain this to me. If you find an earring in your dad’s car and he says it doesn’t belong to his girlfriend but to a client … would you believe him?’

  Ash shrugs. ‘Maybe. I guess it depends on your dad.’

  ‘I guess so,’ I tell him. ‘Something about it’s been bugging me all day. It reminded me of when Mum and Dad were still together, and my sister found an earring on the back seat of the car, and there was one almighty row. And a little while later, they split up.’

  ‘Because of the earring?’ Ash wants to know.

  ‘No … well, possibly. I don’t know. Perhaps Dad was having an affair. I was only eleven or twelve, I didn’t really ask questions.’

  An ancient surfer dude comes in to order a complicated baguette involving layers of ham, cheese, lettuce, tomatoes and pickle, and Ash takes a while to concentrate on the construction of it.

  ‘Are you thinking that your dad could be seeing someone else now?’ he asks carefully, once the surfer guy has gone. ‘Like history is repeating itself? That’s got to be tough.’

  ‘He has been working late,’ I consider. ‘And there’s a bit of tension between him and Emma. Maybe that’s what’s bothering me. But I just keep thinking I’ve missed something … something obvious.’

  Like history repeating itself, I think, and suddenly I understand. Dad really was having an affair back then, and that was why he and Mum divorced. I’ve spent a long time telling myself it was Mum’s fault, but the facts were there all along; I just didn’t want to see them.

  A gold-hoop earring found in the car. A gold-hoop earring, the kind Emma likes to wear.

  I grab my bag and head for the door.

  ‘I have to go,’ I call back to Ash. ‘Tell Tara and Bennie something came up.’

  I head out across the boardwalk and on to the sand, and then I break into a run.

  Notifications

  There are eleven new text messages, six missed calls and two voicemail messages for honeyb@chocolatebox.co.uk

  15

  I feel like I’ve stepped into a parallel universe. There’s a huge bouquet of cellophane-wrapped red roses in the kitchen and Emma is dressed up in a pretty dress and silver spike-heel shoes.

  Emma, kind, friendly Emma, who put an arm round my shoulder last night and told me no boy was worth getting upset over. Emma, who had an affair with my dad and broke up his marriage.

  ‘Aren’t they gorgeous?’ she smiles, oblivious. ‘Greg loves to surprise me with flowers, and he’s booked a table at this new super-posh restaurant in town to make up for working late so much recently! We’re doing an early dinner and then a show … isn’t that cute?’

  ‘Cute,’ I echo coldly.

  ‘Will you be OK?’ Emma asks. ‘On your own? I’ve left some cash in case you fancy takeaway pizza. Greg’s swinging by in ten minutes to pick me up.’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ I say. ‘How long have you and Dad been seeing each other, Emma?’

  Her smile falters. ‘A good while now … not too long after he split up with your mum, I think. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Just wondered,’ I say with a shrug. ‘How did you meet?’

  ‘Oh … well … I was your dad’s Personal Assistant back at the London office, for years, really. So we were already good friends, and after they separated things just sort of took off …’

  I bet they did.

  ‘After the split?’ I challenge. ‘Definitely?’

  Emma’s cheeks darken, and she can’t meet my eye. ‘Look, Honey – this is ancient history. Why rake up the past?’

  I am certain it wasn’t after they broke up. I look at Emma, her glossy hair pinned up prettily to show off the signature gold-hoop earrings, and I wonder if she knows that a lost earring found in a car can change people’s lives. I wonder if she knows that it happened back then, and that maybe it’s happening again right now. I wonder if she cares.

  They say that what goes around comes around, but in spite of everything, I can’t find it in me to hate Emma. There’s the sound of tyres crunching on gravel. Dad toots the car horn and Emma hugs me and runs out of the house, and I’m left alone.

  I fetch my mobile and laptop from the bedroom and stretch out on the sofa; there’s an avalanche of notifications. Before I can click on to SpiderWeb, my iPhone buzzes with a new message.

  Coco Tanberry

 

  to me

  What are you PLAYING at, Honey? You are SO embarrassing! Get rid of the pic – it’s tacky, even for you.

  My heart starts to race. I type back, asking Coco what she’s talking about. Seconds later, a one-word answer appears on the screen.

  SpiderWeb.

  I click on to my home page and suddenly the whole day of funny, sideways looks begins to make sense. There on my home page is a photo of me, taken back in the spring at someone’s party. It’s a jokey, flirty picture of me leaning in to the camera, blowing a kiss and showing a little too much cleavage; but that’s not the worst of it. The status printed above it makes me feel sick.

  Feeling lonely … going to an all-girls’ school sucks. Any cute boys out there want to help cheer me up?

  I scan down. There are dozens of replies, some from girls at school telling me I should be ashamed, calling me disgusting names. It’s the comments from boys – and men – that get me, though. Comment after comment, sleazy, saddo remarks from blokes offering to help cure my loneliness. And they leave me in no doubt about how they are planning to do that.

  Amongst the sleaze, one comment stands out, from Surfie16.

  Wish I’d made the effort to come along to see you last night now. Looks like there was a lot more on offer than the movie!

  Tears sting my eyes. How can you be so wrong about someone?

  I don’t even know half of these people … most of the names aren’t on my friends list. As for the picture, it’s an old one from my iPhone; when I got the laptop, I uploaded all of my mobile pictures and stored them in my SpiderWeb photo albums, but I locked the privacy settings so that only I could access them. And I know I didn’t post that picture on to my home page … so how did it get there?

  I click Delete, and the post disappears.

  No wonder the girls at school were acting strangely. No wonder Liane made her ‘sleaze’ comment. Even my little sister has seen the post, and the thought of that makes me sick with shame. I close my eyes, trying to make sense of it all and failing miserably. When I open my eyes again, a new private message from Surfie16 blinks at me from my inbox.

  Hey … why’d you take the photo down? I liked it! You still lonely? Bet I can put a smile on your face!

  I wipe away furious tears as I type.

  For God’s sake – I didn’t post that photo. I’ve no idea how it got there!

  A reply appears a few moments later.

  Well, it didn’t get there all by itself, did it? Were you drunk last night or something? Missing me? ;o)

  I grit my teeth.

  No, I wasn’t drunk and I didn’t post it! Don’t be such a slimeball, Riley!

  Another message appears.

  Don’t be mad at me. OK, I stood you up – my bad. But why get so upset about a photo?

  I literally growl at this. Is Riley stupid? I try to explain.

  That picture was in a private folder. I don’t see how anyone could have even known it was there, let alone post it online. All those awful comments … the girls at school think I’m sleazy and attention-seeking, and I seriously don’t know who the guys who commented even are. I think I’ve been hacked!

  A minute later, Riley’s reply appears.

  Check your security settings. If you haven’t set them properly, everyone on your friends’ SpiderWeb pages can see what you’ve posted and comment.

  I am certain I put tight security settings in place when I created the page, but when I go to check the security is set so that ‘everyone’ can see what I post. I change it back to ‘friends only’ an
d check the settings on my photo albums – they too are set so that ‘everyone’ can see. Horrified, I ramp up the security again and click Save.

  I type another message.

  My security settings have changed. How can that happen?

  A reply appears a few minutes later.

  Guess you didn’t set them right to start with. This was the kind of picture that attracts a lot of attention, but you should have thought about that before you put it online.

  Exasperated, I send off my response.

  I didn’t put the picture online! Why won’t you believe me?

  There’s no reply.

  Thought I should let you know that Liane was saying some pretty nasty stuff about you after the meeting. Something about a picture on your SpiderWeb page, although when she tried to show us there was nothing there, so maybe she made it all up? Ash said you had to head off – hope everything’s OK.

  Bennie xxx

  16

  It takes forever to explain it all to Tara and Bennie. Luckily neither of them actually saw the photograph – I must have deleted it just in time – but Liane told them in great detail just how cringey it was. Great.

  ‘Be careful next time,’ Bennie says when we meet in town. ‘I know you didn’t mean anything bad, but some things are better kept private.’

  ‘I didn’t post it,’ I say for what feels like the millionth time. ‘I don’t know how it got there, but it had nothing to do with me!’

  Tara frowns. ‘Are you saying it wasn’t your picture?’

  ‘It was an old one,’ I explain. ‘Taken at a party in April or May. I was messing around, having fun, and someone picked up my iPhone and took the picture. It was in a private SpiderWeb album – I’d never have posted it so people could see. Especially not with a comment like that.’

  ‘Sounds like every lowlife on the Internet chipped in with something to say,’ Bennie adds. ‘Yuk.’

  ‘Liane and some girls from school commented too,’ I say. ‘Think I’ve lost a few friends over this.’

  ‘If they judge you over a stupid mistake –’

  ‘Not a mistake,’ I argue. ‘I was hacked!’

  ‘Well, whatever,’ Tara says. ‘If they were really your friends, they’d understand, that’s all. Hold your head up, pretend nothing happened – scandals come and go at Willowbank. By next term, nobody will even remember.’

  I’m not sure that’s true; overnight five or six girls from school have vanished from my SpiderWeb. I don’t think they see me as cool and exotic any more – more cheap and sleazy.

  ‘We’re on your side,’ Tara says. ‘Bennie stuck up for you when Liane was being spiteful. We’ve decided to drop out of the quiz team, for now at least. Friends are more important.’

  I smile, touched at their loyalty.

  ‘Do you really think you were hacked?’ Bennie asks. ‘Because if you did post the picture, because you were feeling down about Riley not turning up or something … well, we’d understand. Everyone gets stuff wrong sometimes.’

  ‘Me more than most,’ I admit. ‘But I didn’t do this, Bennie. And I can’t figure out who would.’

  She considers. ‘Who else has had access to your laptop? Or your iPhone even?’

  I bite my lip. ‘Just you two, really,’ I say. ‘At the sleepover. And I know you didn’t even go near it, except when I was showing you those photos of Kes and Shay. Dad and Emma, of course … but they’d never do something like this. I’ve had my iPhone at school, though, and at the beach cafe.’

  ‘Ash wouldn’t,’ Tara says firmly. ‘He’s OK.’

  ‘And we wouldn’t,’ Bennie adds. ‘You know that, obviously.’

  ‘Obviously,’ I agree. ‘Maybe someone at school, but I know I haven’t left my mobile out of sight, so I’ve no idea how!’

  The more I think about it, the clearer it seems that someone close to me is the culprit. And that really is scary.

  I am literally counting down the days until school closes for the Christmas break, but despite the sweltering Aussie heat, the atmosphere in class is frosty. Not too many people actually saw the photo; we’re not supposed to use mobiles during the school day, but Liane has made sure everyone knows about it, and they all have an opinion.

  I do a pretty good job of ignoring the nasty looks, but on Tuesday I end up stuck next to Liane in art. The mirrors we’re using for our self-portrait paintings have been individually set up with leafy plants and still-life objects and draped fabric; they sit on the side benches from week to week, so we can go on with our paintings without delay or interruption. Moving is not an option, so I look straight through Liane as if she’s not there at all. It takes some willpower, trust me.

  Halfway through class Miss Kelly stops beside me, studying my picture. My brush freezes in mid-air, partway through painting the highlights on a piece of velvet draped from the top of the mirror.

  ‘Have you used acrylic paint before, Honey?’ she asks.

  ‘No,’ I admit. ‘Why? Am I doing it wrong?’

  Miss Kelly laughs. ‘No, far from it! This self-portrait is expressive, powerful – quite extraordinary. The eyes … so sad and vulnerable and lost!’

  I flinch at her words. Is that what people see when they look at this picture? At me? Shame floods my body like acid, eating away at me from inside.

  ‘So you don’t have acrylic paints at home?’ Miss Kelly is asking.

  ‘No, Miss.’

  ‘I’ll find you a set of them to borrow over the holidays. I’d love to see more work like this, Honey. Perhaps some portraits of your family? You could make it a holiday project, build up your coursework folder.’

  My family? I don’t think so.

  ‘Can I do something else, Miss?’ I ask. ‘Something less … personal?’

  Miss Kelly laughs. ‘Personal is what I want from you,’ she says. ‘Sometimes the most challenging tasks are the ones we learn most from!’

  I try to argue, but when I open my mouth, nothing comes out. Miss Kelly moves on to help someone else.

  She is my favourite teacher at Willowbank, gentle, kind, encouraging. Doesn’t she know about my past? Does she want me to dig into all that, stir it up and turn it into art? My parents’ marriage, smashed carelessly to bits by the woman who has made me feel welcome in Sydney; my boyfriend-stealing stepsister, Cherry; Paddy with his smug, sickly sweet dreams of happy-ever-after; even Dad, with his late nights and date nights and secrets. All of that would make great material for an art project. Not.

  Miss Kelly hasn’t a clue about any of this, though, because Dad has smoothed out the past, papered over the cracks, supplied a new story to explain my sudden appearance in Australia. I have even helped him do it.

  Miss Kelly wants a project on family? I’ll give her one, but it won’t be the neat series of portraits she’s expecting. I look into the mirror, and the eyes that meet mine aren’t sad; they flash with fury.

  Good. I like them that way.

  Then I look at the painting, and there is the sadness Miss Kelly was talking about; wide blue eyes holding all the pain in the world. I don’t want to see that, and I really, really don’t want anyone else to. It feels like being stripped bare in the middle of the street.

  ‘What’s the matter, Honey?’ Liane sneers, her face spiteful and sour. ‘Not keen on the idea of family portraits? Guess the only person you like looking at is you, right? Only usually with much sluttier clothes on –’

  A wave of anger threatens to engulf me. In one quick movement, I reach out and tip over the water jar, spilling muddy liquid all over the picture and all over Liane, who jumps up screaming. I grab the drawing board, dragging the waterlogged painting off it as if to rescue it; I’m not rescuing it, though – just the opposite. Miss Kelly turns to see Liane howling and yelling at me as the whole picture tears in half.

  ‘Liane!’ Miss Kelly cries. ‘What have you done?’

  ‘Me?’ she screeches, outraged. ‘It was Honey! She tipped water all over me and then ripped the picture
in two! She’s crazy!’

  ‘I find it hard to believe she’d destroy her own painting,’ the teacher says. She rushes to help, promising repairs and rescue. It’s too late by then, though; I have dragged the damaged picture from the board, scrunched it up and thrown it into the bin.

  ‘Honey!’ she says. ‘Your beautiful painting!’

  ‘It was an accident!’ I wail, wiping away an imaginary tear. ‘I spilt the water. Liane was furious, but I don’t blame her and I’m sure she didn’t mean to do it –’

  ‘I didn’t do it at all!’ Liane protests, but even her friends look doubtful. She doesn’t like me; she’s made that very clear. And now she looks like a jealous, vindictive bully, while I seem more of a hapless victim with a very forgiving nature.

  Liane glances at me, simmering with fury, but I just smile and say sweetly that I’m really, really sorry about her dress.

  It’s a pity they don’t do drama lessons at Willowbank. I’d get top marks.

  After school, I sit on a tall stool at the beach-cafe counter and confess all to Ash. ‘She’d have been sent to Birdie if I hadn’t pleaded for mercy on her behalf,’ I recount with relish. ‘I thought she was going to explode with fury. I guess that’ll teach her to mess with me. See, Ash? I told you I wasn’t very nice.’

  He raises an eyebrow. ‘Sounds like she kind of asked for it,’ he says. ‘Spreading rumours and bitching behind your back. But you’re the loser, Honey. You destroyed your own painting. Why would you do that?’

  I bite my lip. The truth is I ruined my picture because Miss Kelly said it made me look sad and vulnerable and lost. It gave too much away.

  ‘I didn’t like it,’ I say carelessly.

  Ash shakes his head. He is putting together a complicated ice-cream sundae involving layers of strawberries, peach slices and lots of ice cream – he thinks I need cheering up. He finishes it off with a handful of chopped nuts, sugar sprinkles and a drizzle of strawberry sauce, a paper parasol perched on top.

  ‘This should make you smile,’ he says. ‘On the house, of course.’