Chocolate Box Girls Read online

A prickle of anxiety runs along my spine. Girls like Honey, like Kirsty, never like me, no matter how hard I try. They are the popular girls, the cool girls, and I don’t fit into their world. Honey isn’t going to be my friend, though – she’s going to be family. That’s different, surely?

  I hope.

  Honey glances over, and her smile fades. She stands up slowly, her smoky-blue eyes looking me up and down, unimpressed. I cannot work out why she’s so frosty, but I know I’m not imagining it. When her lips curl into a grin, I shiver.

  Shay drops my elbow and steps away from me, as if I have suddenly become contagious.

  ‘I’m Honey,’ the girl says, and her arm snakes round Shay’s waist, reeling him in and holding on tight. ‘You’ve met Shay then? My boyfriend?’

  I look at Shay, and his gaze slides away from mine, guilty, awkward. I am invisible again.

  ‘Looks like it,’ I say.

  ‘OK,’ she says, fixing me with an arctic glare. ‘Good.’

  Dreams of family, dreams of friendship, dreams of love – abruptly, they all crash and burn, falling in little pieces around me, sharp and bright and painful, like broken glass.

  7

  I am hiding under the duvet, which is crisp and ironed and smells of washing powder, unlike my duvet from home, which was always crumpled and bobbly and littered with toast crumbs. The pillow under my head is squashy and feather-filled, and even the mattress is springy and soft, with no dodgy springs poking me in the ribs in the middle of the night.

  I should be happy, but I am not.

  I don’t belong here. My dreams shattered the minute I met Honey Tanberry, the minute Shay Fletcher turned away from me as if I didn’t exist.

  I had to grit my teeth and smile my way through the party, and I told about a million lies.

  ‘Yes, I’m so excited to be here!’

  ‘Yes, everyone’s been so welcoming! I can’t wait to get to know you all a bit better …’

  Surprise surprise, Honey and Shay didn’t come anywhere near me all night. They wrapped their arms round each other and laughed and whispered until I felt so sick of them both I could have screamed.

  I didn’t, though. It wouldn’t have been fair on Dad and Charlotte. I ate a slice of Cherry Chocolate Cola Cake and it was surprisingly good.

  I kept smiling, even when my face felt frozen, and I kept saying the right things, the polite things, the positive things. I let Skye and Summer show me the gypsy caravan, the silver stream. I followed Coco down the steep path that leads down from the garden to the beach, and my feet sank into damp sand as I looked out across the glinting ocean, beautiful, silent, still.

  When it got dark, Shay Fletcher picked up the blue guitar and started to play, and, of course, Dad fetched his fiddle from the minivan and the two of them played sad songs around the bonfire, under the stars. It was probably the best party I had ever been to, and the worst.

  And then, at the end of the evening, when the guests had gone and we were walking back up to the house, they dropped the bombshell.

  I would have to share a room. I’ve never done that before – our tenement flat may have been grey and scruffy, but it had two bedrooms. You’d think, in a house this big, you could get a bit of privacy … but no. I am sharing a room, because, of course, Tanglewood House is a B&B and that means that the family are squished into little attic rooms while the paying guests take all the posh bedrooms.

  Guess who I get to share with? Not Skye, because she already shares with her twin, Summer. Not Coco, because she has the box room and it’s only just about big enough to fit in a single bed. And that leaves … Honey.

  Yippee.

  It was the turret room, of course, and Honey was the princess. What did that make me? The servant-girl stepsister who got to sleep in the cinders?

  Honey must have known about the plan, but she looked even more disgusted than me at the whole idea of it. She locked herself in the bathroom for a late-night shower while I hauled a bag of clothes and my treasure box up the stairs, ditched them at the end of the bed and dived under the duvet in my T-shirt and knickers. I heard her swear under her breath when she came back in, but I wasn’t sticking my head above that duvet, not for anyone.

  Now, though, I have no choice. I cannot stay curled under a duvet for the rest of my life, although right now it seems very tempting. The turret bedroom is silent. Before that there was a flurry of huffing and sighing and drawers being opened and shut and the sound of things being sprayed and scooshed.

  I think it’s safe. I think Honey is up and away.

  I lift a corner of the duvet and peer out, and sure enough the coast is clear. I get up quickly, grab sky-blue jeans, a clean top and undies, and pad to the bathroom to wash. My face in the mirror looks sad and tired, my black fringe sticking up at an angle. I drag on my clothes and creep back across the landing.

  When I push open the bedroom door, I see Honey sitting at her dressing table, wearing the pink silk kimono from my treasure box and painting her eyelids turquoise.

  ‘Don’t you ever knock?’ she asks.

  Fury rises in me like a fever. The pink kimono is one of the few things I have that are special, one of the few things that links me to my mum. I can see that Honey has rummaged through the rest of the box as well, leaving the Japanese fan and the paper parasol abandoned on her duvet.

  ‘Don’t you ever ask, Honey?’ I counter. ‘Don’t you ever think of asking, before you take other people’s things?’

  ‘This is my room,’ she snaps. ‘If you leave stuff lying around, what do you expect?’

  ‘I didn’t leave it lying around!’

  She raises one perfect eyebrow in the mirror. ‘Sharing a room wasn’t my idea, OK?’ she snarls.

  ‘I kind of guessed that …’

  I don’t think Honey would want to share anything with me, unless it was the swine-flu virus, or possibly the plague. The feeling is mutual, but she doesn’t want the kimono, I know, she is just trying to wind me up, get a reaction. Why give her the satisfaction? I take a deep breath.

  ‘Shay told me you were flirting with him last night,’ she goes on. ‘I mean, seriously – don’t go there, Cherry. He is way out of your league.’

  Flirting with Shay? As if! No, he was the one flirting with me, I am certain of it. The boy must have an ego the size of the Exmoor National Park to go telling his girlfriend I was chasing him. OK, I might have been interested, for about a split second, but he is Honey’s boy, and obviously, that makes him out of bounds. I just wish someone had told him that, before he went messing with my hopes and dreams.

  ‘You must think you’re so clever,’ Honey says. ‘You and your waster dad. One minute you’re stuck in a Glasgow slum, eating reject chocolate bars, and the next you’re moving in on us …’

  I blink. Glasgow slum? Waster dad? If there was a plate of macaroni cheese and chips handy right now, Honey would be wearing it.

  ‘You’re crazy,’ I tell her. ‘We’ve turned our lives upside down, given up everything to come here. It’s not easy to leave all your friends behind …’

  Well, it wouldn’t be, if I actually had any. Honey doesn’t know that, of course …

  ‘And for the record, there is no way I’d be interested in your boyfriend,’ I go on. ‘I’ve got one back home, and he’s way better-looking than Shay Fletcher. I’m missing him like mad already …’

  Honey smiles, as if she can see right through the lie.

  ‘Boyfriend?’ she asks. ‘What’s his name?’

  I cast around for inspiration, but all I can come up with is an image of Scott Pickles, the little boy from the flat downstairs back home.

  ‘Scott,’ I say. ‘His name is Scott. And for your information, Honey, Glasgow is the coolest city in the world. We had this massive apartment with … with … balconies, and a spiral staircase, and a roof garden …’

  Honey raises an eyebrow, amused, and I r
ealize, too late, that Dad has probably told the Tanberry family all about our little tenement flat in the West End. And Charlotte, of course, has actually been there.

  I try again. ‘My dad had a good job –’

  ‘At a chocolate factory, yeah, I heard,’ Honey says, stroking eyeliner pencil beneath first one eye, then the other.

  My cheeks burn, and I long to wipe the smirk off Honey’s face.

  ‘That’s right,’ I say brightly. ‘He was a manager at McBean’s, in charge of … um … research … and quality control. He was one of the top men. He practically ran the place …’

  Honey laughs. ‘And now he’s here … with no job at all, right? How convenient!’

  ‘You’re twisting things!’ I argue. ‘Dad’s going to help Charlotte with the B&B, and they’re going to go into business together making handmade, luxury chocolates –’

  ‘Using whose cash?’ Honey counters, turning round to face me properly. ‘Let’s see, it would have to be Mum’s, because from what I’ve been told, your dad hasn’t a penny to his name. Face it, Cherry, he’s a liar and a chancer … and you are too. There was no luxury apartment, and there was no manager’s job … and I have my doubts about the boyfriend too. Who are you trying to kid? Seriously, Cherry, don’t even go there. You may have fooled my mum and my sisters, but you don’t fool me!’

  ‘I’m not trying to fool anyone! We’ve been alone, just me and Dad, for years and years –’

  ‘Oh, spare me the sob story!’ she cuts in. ‘I’m not going to fall for it. My mum might not be able to see it, but I am wise to you. Just listen, OK? I don’t want another sister, because I have three already, and trust me, that is more than enough. And I don’t want your dad around either, because you know what? I already have a dad. He’s smart and cool and he loves me … and he loves Mum too, actually. I know he does. So don’t think for a minute that you can worm your way in here and make yourself at home, because he will be back one day, I promise you that. And then where will you be? Nowhere!’

  Nowhere – or anywhere – would be better than being here with Honey Tanberry.

  Wishes don’t always come true. Why did I ever think it could be that easy? Wherever I am, whatever I do, there will always be a mean girl stirring up trouble, trying to spoil it for me.

  What is it about me they find so unappealing? I have been trying to work that out for years. The teen mags always tell you to ‘just be yourself ’ and let new friends come to you, but seriously, they don’t know what they are talking about. Girls like Honey and Kirsty McRae look at me and see the human version of a reject Taystee Bar, a girl who has missed out on a few vital layers from the production line of life.

  I’ve tried to add in those missing layers, with bright, glam stories of my missing mum, designed to make my life look at least a little more interesting. It doesn’t work, of course.

  I grab the cardboard box with shaking hands and repack the parasol and the fan.

  ‘These things are special,’ I tell her, my voice wobbling.

  Honey sighs and shrugs off the kimono, scrunching it into a ball before throwing it at me. ‘You didn’t think I really wanted it, did you?’ she laughs. ‘As if. Moth-eaten tat is really not my style.’

  Tears sting my eyes. ‘What is your problem, Honey? What have I ever done to you?’

  ‘You’re here,’ she snaps. ‘You’re here, and you shouldn’t be, OK?’

  Her blue eyes flash and her lips curl into a smile like ice. She wrenches the treasure box from my hands, yanks open the little arched window and tips the whole lot out into the bright July morning.

  ‘Get out, Cherry Costello!’ Honey whispers. ‘Don’t you know when you’re not wanted?’

  8

  As fallouts go, it is pretty spectacular.

  The pink silk kimono flutters like a banner from the tree near the window, and the Japanese fan is perched in its branches like a rare and exotic bird. The paper parasol lies half-open on the grass, lifting slightly in the breeze, and the framed photo of my mum lies face down on the gravel.

  Dad and Charlotte stand on the driveway, arms folded, faces stern.

  ‘Honey?’ Charlotte shouts up at the turret window. ‘Cherry? What is going on? Come down here right now!’

  Honey flings me a look of total disgust, and flounces down the stairs and out into the sunshine, leaving me to trail along, stunned, in her wake.

  ‘Do you have an explanation?’ Charlotte asks as the two of us emerge on to the gravel driveway. ‘Honey? Is this something to do with you?’

  ‘As if,’ she says carelessly, and I want to slap her. ‘The box must have fallen off the window sill.’

  ‘Cherry?’ Charlotte looks at me, frowning. ‘That’s not what happened, surely?’

  I glance at Honey, and her eyebrows flicker upwards, daring me to drop her in it.

  ‘Must have been,’ I shrug.

  ‘Have you two argued?’ Dad demands. ‘Is there something going on here?’

  ‘Like what?’ Honey asks, all innocence.

  ‘It’s nothing, Dad,’ I tell him, and watch the anxiety fade from his eyes as he exchanges glances with Charlotte.

  ‘Well … just be more careful, next time,’ Charlotte tells Honey. ‘You have to respect other people’s possessions when you’re sharing a room …’

  Honey rolls her eyes. ‘I don’t want to share a room,’ she whines. ‘Mum, please … it’s nothing against Cherry, obviously, but … well, we’re teenagers! We need our space!’

  ‘Honey, sweetheart, it’s not that simple …’

  Coco climbs into the tree to rescue the Japanese fan and Skye tugs at the hem of the pink kimono until it falls into her arms. Summer picks up the paper parasol, twirling it a little. I reach down to get the framed photo, wincing as I see the broken glass.

  ‘I’ll get you another frame,’ Dad promises, and packs the cardboard box up carefully and carries it back inside.

  Charlotte takes Honey in too, still arguing that she needs her own room, and it really isn’t fair to make her share, not when she is trying so hard already to adjust. Nobody asks what I think, but then, I am the outsider here, aren’t I?

  ‘Don’t take it personally,’ Summer says. ‘Honey is very possessive about her room. Maybe you could share with us?’

  ‘It’d be a bit of a squash,’ Skye considers. ‘But we wouldn’t mind.’

  ‘I don’t want to cause any trouble,’ I say.

  ‘You won’t! Take no notice of Honey, really,’ Coco says. ‘She’s just a bit … well, moody, these days. It’s best to ignore her.’

  ‘Mum says she’s going through a phase,’ Skye shrugs. ‘A very long phase.’

  ‘She’s very sensitive,’ Summer says. ‘She’s still getting over our dad leaving.’

  ‘I wish she’d hurry up then,’ Skye huffs. ‘He’s been gone three years.’

  I try for a smile. Three out of four Tanberry sisters seem to like me … that’s something, I guess.

  ‘I love that kimono, Cherry,’ Skye is saying. ‘Where did you get it?’

  ‘It was my mum’s,’ I say softly, and the three girls open their eyes wide. I have their interest now, and their sympathy. ‘That and the photo and the parasol and the fan … well, they’re all I have left of her.’

  ‘Seriously?’ Coco breathes. ‘Oh, wow!’

  ‘So tragic,’ Summer says.

  ‘Did they really fall off the window sill?’ Skye wants to know.

  I roll my eyes. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘We know there is a problem,’ Charlotte tells me, later on, in the kitchen. ‘We know you don’t want to stir up trouble, Cherry, but … well, Honey has been having a hard time, these last few years. She misses her dad.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘I really thought it would be good for the two of you to share a room.’ Charlotte frowns. ‘I think, though, at the moment, she might p
refer to have her own space …’

  ‘I’m sure you’d like your own space too,’ Dad says. ‘But there aren’t any other rooms, and the guest bedrooms are all full, so we wondered …’

  ‘We don’t want you to feel excluded …’

  ‘There are other options … it was just a thought …’

  ‘What?’ I ask, exasperated.

  ‘Well. How would you feel,’ Charlotte asks, ‘about sleeping in the gypsy caravan?’

  ‘Outside?’ I say.

  ‘Well, yes, but it is July, so you won’t freeze, and we could rig up electricity and heating, and move it closer to the house, and if you’re worried about security, the dog could sleep in there with you –’

  ‘No!’ I interrupt. ‘I like it where it is. I mean … I love it, where it is. And I don’t mind about the dog, but … oh, Charlotte, I’d love to sleep there! Can I really?’

  I fling my arms round Dad’s neck and Charlotte laughs and joins us in a three-way hug, and it’s all settled.

  I guess every cloud has a silver lining, and this one is extra shiny. I move my stuff in right away. My clothes fold away into drawers under the bed, my books line up on the shelf, and Rover’s bowl fits perfectly on top of the brightly painted cupboard. Charlotte has washed and ironed the pink silk kimono after its adventure in the tree, and shows me how to slide a length of bamboo cane through the sleeves to hang it from the caravan wall, draping the fabric to one side so you can see the print of cherry blossom.

  Skye helps me to arrange the Japanese fan and the paper parasol, and Dad has been down to the village for a new photo frame, so Mum’s picture is as good as new.

  I’d like to say it felt like home, but my room at home was a mess, a black hole with peeling wallpaper and torn posters. Empty plates and toast crumbs and chocolate wrappers and crumpled clothes littered the carpet. I once lost a Rocket Dog pump in there for six whole months.

  The caravan under the trees feels a million times better.

  It is perfect, with bright, curving walls and clever cupboards patterned with swooping birds with flowers in their beaks. Charlotte has aired the mattress, put on fresh sheets, brought down the duvet from last night and tucked a patchwork quilt over the top in case it gets cold. There is a soft, fluffy rug on the floor, and Dad has drilled a hole in the doorframe and run a lead through, so I have fairy lights inside the caravan as well as strung through the trees outside.