Fortune Cookie Page 7

  I pull a face. ‘Honey was saying. That’s strange, right? I mean, it’s supposed to be reality TV, but it isn’t, is it? It’s all scripted. Fake.’

  She frowns. ‘Not exactly scripted; we get to say what we want to. The stuff we’re filming, like this rush order thing today, did actually happen. It’s just that it was a while ago. They play around with the facts a bit, trying to make good TV. There’s a kind of storyline they’ve worked out with Mum and Paddy, ending up with the Chocolate Festival.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘It’s something we did a couple of years ago as part of a local food trail,’ Cherry explains. ‘It was back when we launched the chocolate business. The TV people want us to do it again, like a grand finale for the series. It’s next Saturday. The whole village will probably be up here for that – maybe you can stick around?’

  I shrug, trying to seem non-committal, but I do not plan to be here in a week’s time. By then I hope I’ll have persuaded Dad to cough up some cash to do the repairs on The Paper Dragon. The alternative is grim: a yurt in Milltown. It doesn’t bear thinking about.

  I could always keep running, I suppose. By next Saturday I could be hitch-hiking my way across Albania. The six o’clock news could be reporting on my mysterious disappearance; they’d flash up my last school photo, a hideous shot of me in a crumpled shirt with too-long hair, looking about eleven. Not good. Maybe they’d do an interview, with Mum crying and Gran saying what a great kid I was, and Sheddie lurking in the background looking guilty and knowing it was all his fault.

  It’s unlikely, though. Mum would probably just be cross and Gran might tell the cameras that I’d always been trouble, exactly like my no-good father. Maybe they’d be better off without me. They’d forget me in the end, or learn to remember me fondly: the rebellious kid who vanished in the night to seek his fortune and build a life that didn’t involve yurts and nettle soup.

  ‘Maybe your mum and sisters could come down for it?’ Cherry is saying. ‘The Chocolate Festival?’

  ‘Maybe not,’ I mutter.

  She raises an eyebrow. ‘Don’t get on with them?’ she asks. ‘What happened?’

  I sigh. I suppose I could set the scene a little; tell her about Sheddie, who even now may be trudging through London in his hand-plaited hippy sandals, on his way to the flat to charm my mum and my little sisters with his stupid home-grown vegetables and his pathetic t’ai chi. I could tell her about Mr Zhao, whose restaurant I destroyed almost single-handedly, or Gran who chose to catch the tube and not the bus and so arrived too late to save the day.

  Or I could cut to the chase and tell her about Mum, working herself to death in her black silk cheongsam dress, carrying plates of wonton soup and egg-fried rice and dreaming of better things. I could explain how Isla abandoned her bathtub Barbie swimming pool in favour of Jammie Dodgers and a go on the swings at the park, how even now Maisie is holding the fort and hatching her plan to freeze out Sheddie.

  I could tell her that this time next week, we will technically be homeless, and all because of me.

  I look at Cherry, and wonder if I can trust her.

  ‘It’s a long story,’ I begin. ‘But … well, I’ve kind of run away from home.’

  12

  Before I can say any more, a voice rings out through the bright morning air.

  ‘Cookie? Where are you?’ Honey comes through the trees, Fred the dog and Humbug the sheep at her heels. The moment is lost. ‘Why are you hiding away out here? Oh – Cherry! What are you doing here?’

  ‘We were talking,’ I say, jumping down from the caravan steps. ‘I’ve been hearing all about your misspent youth.’

  Honey’s smile slips and vanishes, and I know I’ve put my foot in it again. ‘What have you been saying?’ she demands of Cherry. ‘You’ve got no right to go telling tales; my life is none of your business, believe it or not!’

  Cherry sighs. ‘I didn’t,’ she whispers. ‘I just … it was only –’

  ‘Hang on,’ I cut in. ‘I was joking, Honey! Winding you up! You told me yourself you were a troublemaker. I didn’t need Cherry to tell me that. We were just chatting, seriously, about the TV crew and the chocolate business.’

  I’m rambling now, but Honey’s expression softens and she shoots a guilty look at Cherry. ‘OK,’ she says. ‘Fine. Whatever. Just – kind of a sore point, Cookie. You weren’t to know. Um … sorry, Cherry …’

  ‘No worries,’ Cherry says in a small voice, but she can’t meet Honey’s eye and I wonder just what I’ve raked up with my clumsy joke. There’s definitely a vibe of hostility between the two girls. Cherry might be right – things are not quite as perfect at Tanglewood as they seem.

  ‘Anyway,’ Honey is saying. ‘The film crew are ready for the rush order scene with all of us in it; they’re setting up the lights in the kitchen right now, so come on – you’re not allowed to wriggle out of it! The make-up girl is trying to put face powder on Alfie; he is so not impressed! Wait till they get their hands on you, Cookie; this is going to be so cool!’

  It’s the furthest thing from cool I can possibly imagine, but I fix a smile on my face, promise to give it my best shot and follow Honey and Cherry up to the house.

  Packing chocolates into boxes with a whole crowd of crazy kids while a film crew watch our every move is one way to get to know the locals, I suppose. By the time we’re done with filming, I know all about Alfie’s taste in cheesy jokes, about Lawrie’s rescued fox with only three legs who is almost tame, about Shay’s dreams of musical stardom and lots more.

  There are a few scripted bits: shots of Paddy, Charlotte and Sandy saying they despair, that even if they can get the chocolates made in time there is no way they will ever get everything packed up and ready to dispatch, then a shot of Honey on the phone, asking an imaginary person on the other end to come over and help, and bring anyone else they can think of.

  After that, they film us all trudging up to the house across the gravel as the family welcome us with hugs and exclamations that we’ve saved their bacon. ‘I don’t have any bacon,’ Coco says. ‘I’m vegetarian. Bacon is actually just a murdered pig.’

  I have a feeling the TV people might edit that bit out, but I suppose you never know.

  After that we troop into the kitchen and the clipboard woman arranges us round the kitchen table so she can see everybody’s face. We have to tie ribbon bows round chocolate boxes and pack them up into crates, which is hardly strenuous; we also get to chat, which helps a little. I am enjoying my secret life as the Tanberrys’ imaginary long-lost cousin; seriously, if I’d known acting could be this much fun, I might have showed up at a few more drama lessons at school.

  And hey, I am practically a TV star now.

  It gets a little unsettling when the cameras zoom in close and the mics hover above our heads, and Shay is asked to sing some of his songs while sitting on the draining board of the kitchen sink. ‘Look natural,’ the clipboard lady tells him. ‘Relax. You’re just entertaining your friends while they work – an impromptu concert.’

  Shay smiles and shrugs and tries to chill, but I don’t think anybody can relax while perched on a draining board and at one point he knocks the Fairy Liquid off the side and into the washing-up bowl with the top of his guitar, and they have to stop filming and do another take. He has a good voice, though, and the songs have a gentle indie-folk vibe that’s pretty cool.

  ‘He’s good,’ I tell Cherry under my breath. ‘I thought he was just spinning a line about wanting to be a musician, but he’s easily good enough for X Factor.’

  Cherry laughs. ‘Not sure if he’d be into that, but yeah, he’s good,’ she whispers back. ‘He wrote a track that got used in a TV film last year; this could be another break for him. When we do the Chocolate Festival he’s going to do a set there as well. Not sitting in the sink, obviously.’

  ‘Awesome,’ I say.

  Finally the filming is finished and the TV crew pack up. The box-packing party disintegrates and the prop
s are cleared away, but nobody seems inclined to leave; Honey mentions her impromptu beach party idea again, and everyone seems up for that. The sisters heat up pizzas to share and someone conjures up coleslaw and salad out of thin air just about, but luckily the sour lemonade has all gone so we have to make do with squash.

  Everything is ferried down to the beach and the afternoon unfurls around me like some cool screenplay I have somehow managed to blag myself a bit part in. We sit around on blankets and rugs, eating and chatting and soaking up the sun, and just as I’m digging into the fruit salad, Coco and the twins stand up to make some kind of speech.

  ‘We are gathered here today, in the sight of – well, just you guys, really,’ Coco begins. ‘But it’s a gorgeous day and we wanted to do something cool to welcome our long-lost –’

  ‘Cousin,’ Honey cuts in, shooting me a meaningful look. ‘Our long-lost cousin.’

  ‘That’s what I was going to say,’ Coco huffs. ‘Obviously!’

  A few of the village kids exchange puzzled looks, but it looks like strange happenings and unexpected cousins are par for the course at Tanglewood, because everybody goes along with it.

  ‘Not all of you will be aware of this,’ Skye picks up the story. ‘But until yesterday, most of us didn’t know anything at all about Cookie. And then he turned up out of nowhere, and it was all a bit of a shock, but we wanted to throw this party to let him know – to let you know, Cookie – that we are just really, really happy to have you as part of our family!’

  Skye goes a little pink and tries to hide behind her hair, and her twin takes over the speech.

  ‘The thing is that you can never have too many cousins,’ Summer says carefully. ‘So we are very glad indeed to welcome you to Tanglewood, and we hope you can stay for a while and get to know everyone. It’s just – well, really cool to find out we’re related. So, yeah. That’s it, really!’

  I feel all warm and fuzzy inside, touched that the sisters are making an effort to welcome me. The smile on my face is about a mile wide.

  Coco, the youngest sister, edges her way forward again.

  ‘I now declare this beach party open!’ she announces, and Shay picks up his guitar and Alfie starts a ramshackle football match and eventually just about everybody heads into the sea for a swim. My jeans are still at that slightly crispy stage of drying out after this morning’s unplanned dip, so I am not keen to join in. I pretend to be chilling in the sunshine instead.

  ‘Hey, little brother, how d’you like our welcome party?’ Honey asks. ‘Sorry for demoting you to cousin status; we figured you might prefer it that way. It’s nobody’s business but ours, is it? This is all a bit last minute, obviously, but there’ll be a party on Saturday night, after the Chocolate Festival too; it’s going to be epic!’

  ‘I’ll be gone by then,’ I tell her sadly.

  Honey frowns. ‘How come?’ she wants to know. ‘You’ve run away, right? It’s not like you have somewhere better to be.’

  ‘It’s complicated. I can’t really explain right now, but I will, I promise. It’s just that I don’t have much time and I can’t get sidetracked with, well, fun and stuff.’

  ‘Why not? It’s a Sunday afternoon in August and you’re on the best little beach in Somerset; enjoy it!’

  I laugh. ‘I will, honest. I just keep worrying about stuff, that’s all. I should get in touch with Dad now I know who he is. Let him know I exist and all that …’

  ‘We’ll have to Skype him, introduce him to his long-lost son,’ Honey agrees. ‘Although that might actually scare him to death; maybe a phone call first, or an email?’

  ‘I’ll email,’ I say. ‘There’s quite a lot I need to say to him, and I want to give him time to take it in. I just need the email address.’

  ‘Sure,’ Honey agrees. ‘Just one thing; you know how I didn’t get round to telling Mum and the sisters that I’d found you? Well, I didn’t tell Dad either. His girlfriend let it slip when she was upset – she used to be his secretary, and she’d dealt with some paperwork when he made a payment to your mum when you were born.’

  I nod, trying to take this all in.

  ‘I didn’t find out for sure until the night before I flew home,’ Honey is saying. ‘I went searching through his study and I found an old briefcase with some papers about you. I didn’t tell Dad I knew; he’d have been really angry, and things were already rocky between us by then. Does that make sense?’

  ‘Sure, no worries,’ I reply. ‘I’d rather do this on my own, anyway. It’s between me and him; no need for you to get involved.’

  The relief is clear on Honey’s face. I can see how much she needs her dad’s approval, even now that she knows he’s a very long way from perfect. I hate him, just for a minute, for all the hurt and chaos he has left in his wake.

  I hand Honey my mobile and she taps in the email address for me. My fingers shake as I take the mobile back. I want to email right now, but this is not the time or the place. Plus, there’s that whole time-zone thing – I can afford to be patient; the other side of the planet is still sleeping.

  I look out towards the ocean, my eyes on the horizon where it curves away from me, stretching onwards to a whole world beyond my imagining. A world where my dad is waiting.

  ‘Changed your mind about the water?’ Honey asks, misreading my thoughts. ‘Roll your jeans up and paddle.’ In the end I do just that, because the sand is scorching and the turquoise glint of sea is irresistible. I kick off my trainers and tuck my mobile down into the toe of one of them, rolling up my jeans as far as they’ll go.

  As I wade into the water, the boys descend on me for a water fight, and in two minutes flat I’m on my knees, drenched from head to toe, firing off swear words in between torrents of laughter. It’s one of those bonding moments; it’s hard to explain, but I somehow know that Shay, Alfie and Lawrie and the other kids are OK people. I have already gathered that much about Honey, Coco, Skye, Summer and Cherry, as well as Paddy and Charlotte. Spending a few days lying low in Somerset is not exactly going to be a hardship.

  The air smells of coconut suncream and salty water and summer, and I try not to think of Isla and Maisie and how much they would love this, how they’d whoop and scream and crash through the surf and build sandcastles with moats and turrets and shells. I try not to think of them back home at the flat, giving Mum’s new boyfriend the silent treatment as he tries to charm them into a future of yurt-living and lentil stew.

  As the afternoon melts into evening, Alfie, Lawrie and Coco build a makeshift bonfire, and the smell of woodsmoke drifts on the breeze and adds to the magic.

  Summer asks me if I have ever been to the Royal Ballet at Covent Garden, or to Sadler’s Wells, and I have to admit I’ve never even been to the cinema in London, let alone anything arty or cultural. Then Skye tries to pick my brains about London vintage shopping, and I pretend to know what she’s talking about. I’m guessing she doesn’t mean charity shops or jumble sales, although you never know. Coco chimes in to tell me how global warming is melting the polar ice cap and everyone should go vegetarian, and I tell her my mum’s new boyfriend is a veggie t’ai-chi-teaching willow weaver with waist-length dreadlocks and she says he sounds nice, which just about kills the conversation dead.

  I guess it takes all sorts.

  In the end, I strip off my soaked T-shirt, slather on some suncream and weasel my way on to a corner of the picnic blanket Cherry and Shay are sharing. I lie back and shut my eyes and listen to Shay’s guitar, and for an hour or two at least, I try not to think of anything at all.

  13

  I end up having to borrow a pair of Paddy’s checked PJ trousers with a belt tied round them because they’re too big, while my jeans go in the washing machine overnight to wash away the salt and the sand. Next morning I go to rescue them and find that the soy-sauce stain has vanished too, and I feel strangely sad, like a little part of my old life has been washed away.

  The house is silent and still, the breakfast things still
stacked up on the draining board, like everyone has been called away urgently; I feel like an intruder, helping myself to cereal and fruit. I wash the dishes, just to be helpful; I don’t want the Tanberry-Costello gang to think I am taking them for granted.

  Later, I hang the jeans on the cherry tree by the gypsy caravan to dry, and they flutter a little in the morning breeze, like a medieval pennant.

  It’s 11.32 a.m. British time, and I am still waiting for a reply to the email I sent to Greg Tanberry last night.

  Dear Mr Tanberry,

  I know this is going to come as a shock to you, but hey, not as much of a shock as it was to me. I am writing because I have just found out I am your son. Don’t worry about how I found out; you don’t need to know that. You just need to know that my mum’s name is Alison Cooke and that she worked for you fourteen or fifteen years ago, and I expect you know the rest so I am not going to spell it out. Anyway, my name is Jake Cooke and I am fourteen years old, and I suppose you know that too. I am still getting to grips with the whole idea of having a dad, even if it is a dad on the other side of the world. I have a lot to say to you and a favour to ask, if that’s OK, but for now I guess that just saying ‘hi’ is a start.

  Hope to hear from you soon.

  Yours faithfully,

  Jake Cooke

  I check my email for about the seventieth time – still no reply. I tell myself to be patient, then click refresh just in case a reply has arrived in the last thirty seconds. Nothing.

  ‘Hey, Cookie!’

  Cherry is walking down through the trees, a supermarket carrier bag swinging over her arm, two glasses of orange juice with ice in her hands.

  ‘Hey,’ I say. ‘I wondered where everyone was; the house was deserted earlier. What’s going on?’