Fortune Cookie Page 14

  I head down through the trees to tug the tarpaulin coverings from the handmade stage. They fall away, revealing the blue painted wood with its stars and crescent moons, the branches holding the painted backdrop, which declares Tanglewood Chocolate Festival, and the carefully woven driftwood arch with fairy lights threaded through it. I know I have created something amazing, something to be proud of.

  ‘You did this?’ Sheddie asks, something like pride in his voice. ‘It’s quite something, Cookie. You’ve got some skill in those hands, d’you know that?’

  ‘Cheers, man,’ I say.

  ‘It’s incredible,’ Paddy agrees. ‘You’re a bit of a dark horse, Jake Cooke! This is going to be the focal point of the whole festival. Thank you!’

  My heart swells. I don’t know if I’ve ever had a better compliment. I hope the stage says thank you right back to Paddy and the others more eloquently than I ever could with words. I have to hope that it does.

  Shay and Alfie arrive and start setting up the sound system, turning the stage into something functional, something more amazing still; blasts of indie pop blare out at random intervals, scaring passers-by down on the beach who are quietly walking their dogs.

  Coco has turned the duck pond enclosure into a miniature petting zoo. Humbug the sheep mingles with the runner ducks and attempts to paddle in the water, while Lawrie’s three-legged fox, Bracken, snuggles up in her own pen alongside. Coco and Lawrie’s stall is all about wildlife and global warming and saving the giant panda, and later on they will offer pony rides round the field next door to raise money for a local animal sanctuary. A corner of the same field has been set aside for t’ai chi workshops, and Mum has made a canopied bower underneath the trees and set up a sign announcing reflexology treatments.

  As for Maisie and Isla, thanks to Skye they are kitted out in brown and gold net and home-made fairy wings, the littlest of chocolate fairies with satin ballet shoes on their feet and brown and gold ribbons tumbling from their hair. My other sisters look amazing too, other-worldly in their brown velvet vest tops and net-and-ribbon tutu skirts, cheekbones shimmering with fairy dust, peacock-bright fairy wings bobbing as they walk.

  ‘There was some talk of making us boys dress up too,’ Alfie tells me darkly. ‘Skye mentioned something about brown skinny jeans and little hats with feathers. I told her, over my dead body!’

  ‘Phew,’ I grin. ‘Good work, Alfie!’

  Alfie will be running the car park, a field opposite the gate to Tanglewood; the gravel drive is reserved for family, us included, and for the TV crew. Shay is running the music part of the festival, with a talent show for the children as well as slots from several local bands and his own solo set. Skye has taken over the gypsy caravan, transforming it; she plans to sit on the steps, telling chocolate fortunes. Cherry, Charlotte and Paddy are running the Chocolate Box stall, the most important part of the whole festival, and Sandy, Lawrie’s mum, will be in charge of the kitchen, sending out orders for the chocolate cafe in the Indian marquee. Honey, Summer, Millie and Tia will be acting as waitresses; the chocolate cafe sold out at the last chocolate festival, apparently, and all week the sisters have been helping Charlotte to bake an array of mouth-watering cakes.

  And now the other stallholders are arriving too: a woman from the village who is running a cake-decorating stall, a couple of Coco’s friends who are manning the chocolate taste test stall, someone running workshops on making fairy wings, face painters, people running charity stalls and even a kids’ dressing-up area run by the little museum in Kitnor, complete with a fun photo booth attached.

  The TV crew are here already, doing vox pops with some of the stallholders, asking Paddy and Charlotte to say a few words about what makes The Chocolate Box so special. Suddenly in the spotlight, Paddy shrugs and leads the crew down to the stage; it’s the perfect backdrop for his speech.

  ‘What is The Chocolate Box about?’ he asks. ‘It’s about a dream, I guess. It’s about wanting to do something and making it happen, against all the odds, against all advice. It’s about teamwork – working together, friends and family, making our products as good as they possibly can be. Our truffles are sweet and rich and gorgeous, but they’re more than that. They’re fairly traded and handmade with love. And you can’t beat that, really, can you?’

  The camera turns to Charlotte, and she picks up a box of Paddy’s newly created truffles. ‘Paddy’s said it all,’ she says. ‘But he hasn’t told you about the hard work, the long hours, the planning and creativity. And he hasn’t told you about our newest creation, our Fortune Cookie truffle! It’s exclusive to the festival today, but we’re hoping to roll it out to all our suppliers in the coming weeks – let’s just say it’s chocolate with a heart!’

  And then Nikki, the clipboard woman, is ushering the sisters into the shot, pushing forward Sandy and Lawrie and Shay and Alfie, finally even Mum, Sheddie, Maisie, Isla and me. Everyone is grinning like mad, squashed together, happy, standing under the driftwood arch with the fairy lights twinkling.

  ‘Teamwork,’ Paddy says again. ‘That’s what we do, and every truffle is a little bit of magic!’

  ‘Cut!’ Nikki says. ‘Fabulous! I suspect things will be too busy later for anything like that, so I wanted to get it in early – and what a setting. Visually gorgeous! Now, time’s ticking on. Ten minutes till opening!’

  ‘Will people come, d’you think?’ I ask Honey. ‘Will it be OK?’

  ‘There are cars lined up in the lane already,’ she points out. ‘They’ll come, trust me. How did it go with Sheddie yesterday? OK?’

  ‘Yeah, OK,’ I admit. ‘How about you? Any word from Ash?’

  She pulls a face. ‘I’ve pretty much given up on that,’ she says. ‘No worries. I’ll get over it.’

  ‘Kids?’ Paddy yells. ‘Everyone get to your places; gates open in five minutes. Thank you and good luck!’

  I’m taking first shift on the gate, collecting the £1 entry fee and handing out a little leaflet with a map of Tanglewood and a list of all the stalls and activities available. I have a cash tin with a £20 float and a little rubber stamp with ‘Chocolate Festival’ on it so I can stamp people’s hands as they come in to prove that they’ve paid. It’s a responsible job, I kid you not.

  Honey and I exchange glances and head off in opposite directions, grinning. I’m just about ready when Paddy strides up to open the gate. The first few visitors arrive in a trickle, and it’s easy enough to take their money and stamp their hands and give out leaflets. Then somehow there’s a queue in the lane and I am scrabbling for change and forgetting to stamp hands and dropping leaflets on the floor; it’s just too crazy. I’ve lost count, but I know for sure that hundreds of people have trekked in through this gate, and when I look up and across the lane I see row upon row of parked cars in Alfie’s car park field.

  In the distance, I hear Shay announcing the children’s talent show over the sound system, and for the next hour there’s a soundtrack of reedy singing and dodgy uke playing and some fairly awesome compering from Shay. The TV crew are right in the thick of it, interviewing the festival-goers, chatting to people queuing to buy chocolate, to have their fortunes told, to do a t’ai chi class, have a reflexology treatment. The Indian marquee is full to bursting, the waitresses running up and down with trays laden with milkshakes, ice-cream sundaes, cupcakes and chocolate fudge cake. Kids skip past with their faces painted, dressed as Victorians or wearing home-made fairy wings fashioned out of willow and tissue paper. Everyone is smiling.

  Out of nowhere, Cherry appears at my side. ‘Coping?’ she asks. ‘It’s manic, isn’t it? We’ve sold out of Dad’s new Fortune Cookie truffles already; people are loving them! We’re taking orders for them now!’

  ‘Crazy here too,’ I say. ‘Just so many people! It’s calmed down a little bit now, but they’re still coming. It’s mad!’

  As I speak, another punter comes through the gate, a tall, slim boy with blue-black hair and skin the colour of coffee. He has a huge
backpack and hefts it down on to the ground as he roots in a pocket for change.

  ‘Hey,’ he says in a broad Aussie accent. ‘I’m looking for a girl called Honey Tanberry. She around?’

  Cherry’s eyes widen. ‘Hang on … are you Ash?’ she says. ‘Oh wow! You certainly chose your moment!’

  ‘I didn’t choose it, the TV people did,’ he says with a grin. ‘They’ve been in touch with me for weeks, trying to arrange this. Highlight of their reality TV show, apparently.’

  ‘No way,’ I breathe. ‘This is all a set-up? Honey’s been going crazy because she hasn’t heard from you for a week. She thought you’d dumped her!’

  ‘I wasn’t allowed to text,’ Ash says, ‘in case it spoiled the surprise. She’s probably furious with me, but that was the deal. They paid my train fares and I had to keep quiet.’

  ‘She’s been really worried,’ I tell him. ‘But I have a feeling it’ll all be forgotten once she sees you! Can you look after the gate, Cherry? C’mon, Ash, I’ll help you find her!’

  The TV crew spot us at once as we make our way through the crowds towards the chocolate cafe; a camera follows us to the doorway. ‘Can you just stand and gaze out across the marquee?’ the cameraman asks. ‘I’ll do a close-up and then a sweeping shot of the cafe.’

  Ash just laughs, grinning at the camera before glancing out across the crowds, his face hopeful.

  Honey is serving tea and cake to two middle-aged ladies when she looks up and sees him for the first time. Her easy chat crashes to a halt and the teacup slides out of her hand and on to the ground.

  ‘Ash?’ she whispers. ‘Ash, seriously? Oh. My. God!’

  She runs at him and jumps into his arms, almost knocking him over, and the two of them are laughing and hugging and whirling round and round on the grass as the cameras film it all.

  25

  It is all beyond perfect in the end, and the TV crew capture everything. I don’t know much about film or editing, but I know that in the weeks to come they will be able to cut and edit the footage together to make something amazing. It’s reality TV with a soul, a sweet story to warm the hearts of the viewers in the cold autumn nights to come.

  They’ll love every bit: the blended family, the dramas and friendships and the cool, quirky, bohemian sisters with their hopes and dreams and friends and boyfriends. All this is set against a background of stunning Exmoor countryside, the beach, the sea, the house – oh, and the chocolate. Yeah. Call me a cynic if you like, but I think the TV show will be a hit, and if the show is a hit the business will be too.

  Nikki, the clipboard woman who has been running the show, certainly seems to think so. She’s a friend of Paddy and Charlotte’s, the mother of Skye’s ex-boyfriend Finch. Now that the festival is over and the cameras have gone, she puts down her clipboard and sits with us round a makeshift driftwood bonfire on the beach. We’ve cleared away the worst of the mess, stacked plates, filled the dishwasher; now, for a little while at least, there is nothing to do but chill.

  We go over and over the day’s events. For once, Honey looks almost shy, her face shining with happiness.

  ‘Ash is just the most awesome person I know,’ she says simply. ‘Apart from you guys, obviously. Can you believe he’s just travelled across Europe to surprise me? How cool is that? Although I am not sure if I can ever forgive him for not texting me. Boy, are you in trouble!’

  Ash just laughs, leaning into her, his fingers twined round hers.

  ‘Your new truffle was a huge hit,’ Nikki comments. ‘The one with the little chocolate message inside. What was it called? Fortune Cookie?’

  ‘Named after this young man,’ Charlotte says, grinning at me. ‘So, what kind of future do you see for us, Cookie? Any predictions?’

  I roll my eyes. ‘Well, you and Paddy are going to be household names soon, of course,’ I declare. ‘The reality TV show will see to that. Not only will The Chocolate Box be the UK’s favourite chocolate brand, it’ll change the whole industry for the better – more and more chocolate firms will become fair trade and organic. Fame and fortune and happiness, how about that?’

  ‘Sounds good to me,’ Paddy laughs. ‘How about the girls?’

  ‘Yeah, how about us?’ Honey chimes in, grinning. ‘Can I have some fame and fortune too?’

  ‘Well, you’re definitely going to be famous, Honey,’ I tell her. ‘A famous artist. I’m not sure if you’ll be rich, but so what? You’ll live with Ash in an attic apartment in Paris, and eat pain au chocolat for breakfast and paint all day and go dancing at night, and Ash will write research papers on – I dunno – philosophy or something. Summer’s going to be a dance teacher, we know that already; she’ll train some of the country’s most famous ballerinas, and one day she’ll take over that fancy boarding ballet school – what is it called?’

  ‘Rochelle Academy,’ Summer says, breathless. ‘Wow. I wish!’

  ‘It’ll happen,’ I promise. ‘And Alfie will do the cooking and the paperwork, and you’ll have three or four kids, all girls, all awesome at dancing.’

  Alfie howls with laughter and tries to elbow me in the ribs, but I can tell he’s pleased. I look up, notice Isla twirling round and round on the sand, her fairy wings juggling, ribbons flying out as she moves.

  ‘Skye, you’re going to be a highly acclaimed costume designer,’ I say. ‘You’ll style and dress world-famous actors for award-winning films and TV series. And you’ll go on wearing vintage till you’re old and grey.’

  Skye laughs, and I move on to Cherry. ‘You’ll be a writer, clearly,’ I say. ‘You’ll start off in journalism and write a children’s book in your spare time about a girl called Sakura. The book will take off and turn into a series, and then a film. Trust me, you’ll end up richer than Shay, and everyone knows he’s going to be a superstar.’

  ‘What about me?’ Coco asks, pouting. ‘Will I save the world? Or run my own animal rescue? Or end up working in Tesco’s?’

  ‘You’ll go to uni to study to be a vet,’ I tell her. ‘You’ll get the best grades in your class, but in your final year you’ll join Greenpeace and drop out of uni to sail to the Arctic on that boat – what’s it called? Rainbow Warrior. You’ll set up a sanctuary for polar bears and years later you’ll marry your childhood sweetheart, Lawrie.’

  Coco blushes crimson and Lawrie looks horrified, but the others are shrieking with laughter. ‘Go on – go on … how many children?’ they want to know. ‘How many three-legged foxes?’

  I shake my head. ‘No kids,’ I decree. ‘Coco’s going to go into politics and will end up becoming Britain’s first eco-prime minister. She really will save the world, or our little corner of it. And I’ll be able to say I knew her before she was famous.’

  ‘Yessss!’ Coco crows. ‘My fortune’s the best – love it, Cookie! I wonder if it’ll happen. I wonder if any of it will?’

  I wink at her. ‘Wait and see,’ I tease.

  Honey snakes an arm round my shoulder, sighing. ‘I am going to miss you so much, little brother,’ she says. ‘I don’t want you to go. It’s not fair. We’ve only really just found you, and now we’re losing you again.’

  ‘You won’t lose me,’ I argue. ‘Not ever. We’re all part of the same jigsaw, right?’

  ‘Definitely,’ Cherry agrees. ‘We should arrange to meet up every year here at Tanglewood, on the beach, with a bonfire burning and guitars playing, until we’re old and ancient. That way we’ll never lose touch.’

  ‘That’s a deal,’ I say.

  We sit round the bonfire until the light begins to fade and Paddy gets up to light the jam-jar lanterns hanging from hooks skewered into the damp sand. Shay plays guitar and Paddy joins in on the fiddle for a while, and then Coco does, and even though her playing makes my ears hurt, I can’t help smiling.

  It’s almost eleven by the time Mum and Sheddie creep away to put Maisie and Isla to bed. ‘Don’t be too late, Jake,’ Mum warns me. ‘We’re setting off early in the morning, remember; it’s a long drive t
o Millford.’

  That brings me back down to earth all right.

  The party breaks up slowly after that; we’re beyond tired, but happy too. Paddy and Charlotte and Sandy and Nikki head back up to the house; the sisters and their friends wander up to the marquee, where a summer sleep-out among the remnants of the chocolate cafe has been planned.

  Me, I just want to be alone for a little while.

  The bonfire burns down to embers and the light is falling fast. I sit on the beach for another hour or so as the sky darkens to the colour of blue-black ink, watching the stars come out one by one beneath a perfect sliver of moon.

  Mum knocks at the door or the gypsy caravan at six, and ten minutes later I am washed and dressed, eating leftover pizza slices in the Tanglewood kitchen. Sheddie’s van is packed and ready, and Mum lifts my little sisters up into the back seats and fastens their seatbelts.

  There are supposed to be no goodbyes, no tears, no regrets. All our farewells have already been made, at the bonfire party last night, but Paddy and Charlotte come out on to the gravel for more hugs, more promises to keep in touch.

  ‘I saved you some of those new truffles,’ Paddy says, handing me a small patterned box tied up with ribbon. ‘The Fortune Cookie ones, there’s one each. The TV people reckon they’re going to be a bestseller, and if they are, Cookie, I’ll have you to thank!’

  And then we’re in the van – Mum and Sheddie up front, me in the back next to Maisie and Isla – and Sheddie fires up the engine and the van crawls across the gravel towards the gate.

  ‘Cookie!’ someone calls, and I look out of the window to see Honey and Cherry running up through the trees, the twins and Coco behind them. Five crumpled and sleepy chocolate fairies are lined up on the five-bar gate, waving, as Sheddie turns the van out on to the road.

  ‘Good luck in Millford!’ Cherry yells. ‘Don’t forget us!’

  ‘Write to me!’ Honey adds. ‘Come back soon!’

  And then we drive over the brow of the hill, and Tanglewood is gone behind us, fading already into memory. For a while we can see the sea, a blue-grey smudge in the distance, and then that is gone too, as if it had never been there at all.