A lot can change during the editing process of a book and, in the case of The Grown Up To-Do List, the whole opening chapters were cut and rewrote, changing the way Cleo is reacquainted with her school crush, Paul. I understood why this had to happen but I was a little bit gutted because I loved these scenes, especially security guard Noel, who is scrapped completely. So I thought I'd share the chapters as an alternative beginning. Hope you enjoy!
***NOTE***
This is an extract from the un-edited version of The Grown Up To-Do List so there may be errors. I'd be surprised if there aren't any, to be honest. Plus, there are changes to the characters that appear in the finished copy.
The Grown Up To-Do List
***
Today’s must do to-do list:
Buy
Gran’s birthday present (Slippers? Perfume? Gin? Ask Mum!)
Find
‘something suitable’ to wear tonight (Mum insists)
Help
Mum with party prep
Don’t
be late for work (again)
***
One
I’m
minding my own business, humming quietly along with the opening of Billy
Ocean’s ‘Red Light Spells Danger’ and preparing for a major mental bop when it
really gets going when it happens. Don’t judge me; the song’s playing
over the department store’s sound system and I can’t help myself, it’s that
kind of tune, and though it predates me by about twenty years, I know the song
well due to my boss’ love of 70s music. With hindsight, I suppose you could see
the song as a notice of impending doom, but I had no idea what was coming.
Perhaps the warning should have been less subtle. Maybe an actual red light
flashing above my head? Because one minute I’m browsing the shelves in search
of Gran’s favourite perfume and the next I’m flying sideways into a display rack
of costume jewellery. My life flashes before my eyes as I stumble into the rack
of gaudy, sparkly adornments (my life, it turns out, isn’t very interesting)
but although the display rack lurches, I somehow manage to stay on my feet.
Unfortunately, the momentum of stopping myself falling forwards is too great
and I tumble backwards, landing with a thud on my arse a split second before
the display rack drops onto me like a felled tree, spilling diamante-encrusted
bracelets like autumn leaves.
‘Oh my God.’ There’s a woman crouching beside me, her face so close to
mine that I can smell the Caramel Cortado from the Costa on the lower level of
the shopping centre on her breath (I may have a slight coffee addiction,
but now isn’t the time to go into that). ‘Are you okay?’
My tailbone feels as though it’s on fire and I’m winded from the impact
of the little shit who rugby tackled me into the display rack, but I do the
very British thing and say I’m fine, even as I’m wrestling the display rack
from my wounded body and trying not to cry.
‘I’m so sorry.’ The coffee-breathed woman helps me to my feet before
wrenching the display rack into an upright position. ‘I made the mistake of
letting the boys have a hot chocolate and a chocolate muffin just to
shut them up for five minutes and now they’re hyper.’ She grimaces at me and I
grimace back. My arse really, really hurts. ‘Elijah! Sebastian! Get back
here and apologise to this poor girl right now.’
‘It’s okay. Really.’ I wince as I bend down to retrieve my shopping bag,
mentally adding another item to today’s to-do list: never ever have
kids, no matter how tempting and angelic they look in ads for baby food and
washing detergent.
‘Are you sure?’ The woman looks up and down the shop’s perfume section, a
frown lining her face. There’s no sign of Elijah and Sebastian, which is no bad
thing in my opinion.
‘I’m sure.’ I’d sound more convincing if I wasn’t gasping for breath and
clutching my side, but it can’t be helped and the woman isn’t really listening
anyway. She’s too preoccupied searching for her delinquents and she dashes away
as soon as I start to hobble towards the exit. I need to somehow rest without
sitting down on my throbbing tailbone, and maybe have a little weep.
‘Excuse me, miss.’ There’s a hand on my shoulder as I step out onto the
shopping centre’s concourse, big and meaty and its grip painfully tight.
‘Gerroff.’ I don’t mean to sound rude, particularly as the hand’s owner
was polite while addressing me, but my poor battered body can’t take any more
abuse. I try to wriggle free, but the fingers dig deeper into my flesh.
‘You need to come back inside with me.’
I twist (painfully. My side feels as though I’ve been whacked by a
battering ram) and see the black and white uniform of the shop’s security. He
starts to haul me back towards the department store but I dig my heels in. I
want to go home and feel very sorry for myself, not return to the scene of the
crime.
‘It’s okay. I’m okay. I just want to go home.’
‘You’re not going anywhere, love.’ The security guard prods me in the
back so hard I have no choice but to scuttle forward. ‘Not until we’ve sorted
this out.’
‘There’s really nothing to sort out.’ I attempt to sidestep him, but he’s
quite beast-like – tall and wide and mean-looking – and he grabs me by the arm,
his fingers locking tight. ‘I don’t want to complain or anything. I’m not going
to sue. It was an accident. No harm done.’ Though try telling that to my
tailbone and ribs. ‘So, like I said, I just want to go home.’
‘And like I said, you’re not going anywhere until we’ve sorted
this out.’ I try to wriggle free, but he drags me back into the shop and
snatches my shopping bag from my fingers. It’s as he’s rifling through the bag
that I clock the insistent beeping of the store’s alarm system. He isn’t
concerned about the accident at all! He thinks I’m a thief.
Heat creeps up from chest, spreading up my throat and turning my cheeks
pink. If I wasn’t mute with shock, I’d give this fella a piece of my mind. A
thief! Me? I’ve never nicked anything in my life, and I’m not going to start
now, at the age of twenty-seven. My life may not be very interesting (as
evidenced by the piss poor life-flashing-before-my-eyes a few minutes ago) but
there are better ways to mix it up. Sky-diving. Travelling the world. Entering
into the world of dating again. Definitely not shoplifting.
‘There’s been some kind of mix up.’ I finally find my voice. Or a squeaky
version of it. I’m trying to ignore the stares as people pause their shopping
to gawp at me. The coffee-breathed woman slows her pace as she leaves the shop
with her two brats, almost coming to a standstill as she rubber-necks at the
drama.
‘A mix up, eh?’ The security guard smirks at me as he slowly pulls his
hand out of my shopping bag. His eyebrows inch up his forehead before he
produces the most hideous necklace known to man from my bag. ‘I think you’d
better come to the office with me.’
The
necklace is a garish shade of gold with a row of plastic ‘sapphires’ dotted
along the chunky chain and a large golden beetle with a stabby-looking mandible
at its centre. It still has its cardboard label and the security device that
caused this spectacle attached. It is the ugliest piece of jewellery I’ve ever
seen. Perhaps the ugliest object I’ve ever seen.
‘Why the hell would I pickpocket that monstrosity?’ The necklace is
sitting on the desk between me and the shop’s manager while Noel, the
heavy-handed security guard who dragged me in here, stands in front of the
closed door. Noel’s bagged the necklace up (to preserve the evidence, he’d said
as he’d shaken the crumbs from his sandwich out of the clear plastic bag).
‘That isn’t for us to decide, young lady.’ The manager folds her arms
across her chest and arches an eyebrow at me. ‘Young lady’ indeed. I’m
twenty-seven, not a pre-teen who’s been caught shovelling sweets in her pockets
at the corner shop. And the manager can’t be more than thirty-five herself,
even if her snooty, I’m-so-much-better-than-you expression ages her terribly.
‘It’s for the police, innit.’ Noel mirrors the manager’s action, folding
his arms across his wide chest. ‘They’ll be here any minute now.’
They’ve called the police. Did it right in front of me as I inched myself
down on the plastic chair, gritting my teeth against the pain of putting
pressure on my tailbone. They’ve had a ‘spate of thefts’ over the past few
weeks and they’re ‘determined to stamp it out’. Starting with me, even though I
haven’t nicked anything.
‘You’re wasting their time.’ I fold my arms across my chest, ignoring the
stab of pain in my side. ‘I’m not a thief, and even I was, I wouldn’t take that
thing if you paid me.’ I glare at the offending object. It really is nasty.
‘There’s been a mix up. It probably fell into my bag when…’
Noel hoots out a laugh, rising up onto his tiptoes with mirth. ‘Fell into
your bag? Did you hear that, Yvette? Fell into her bag? And how did it
manage that, love? Grow a pair of legs and jump off the rack, did it?’
‘No.’ I hold in a sigh. I also hold in telling Noel that he’s a pillock.
‘The rack fell over. It fell on top of me.’
‘You what?’ Noel snorts. ‘Don’t talk rubbish, love.’
‘Will you stop calling me love?’ I pierce Noel with my best
don’t-mess-with-me glare before turning to the manager. ‘Do you encourage this
kind of misogyny in all your staff or just this buffoon?’
‘Oi.’ Noel throws back his shoulders so he’s standing taller. ‘Who are
you calling a buffoon?’
‘Noel, please.’ The manager – Yvette – holds up a hand. ‘Go back out onto
the shop floor. I’ll call you back in if you’re needed.’
‘But I’m the prime witness.’ Noel points at the necklace in the sandwich
bag. ‘She’d have had that away if I hadn’t stopped her.’
‘Exactly.’ Yvette smiles up at Noel, flashing a row of overbright white
teeth. ‘She may have accomplices out there, clearing the stock while we’re
distracted in here. I need your eyes out there.’
For Pete’s sake. Prime witness. Accomplices. They’re treating this like
an episode of Midsomer Murder rather than the mix up it clearly is.
‘Do you have CCTV?’
Noel has lumbered from the office, eager to get back to his station so he
can foil more would-be thieves, so it’s just me and Yvette now. Two reasonable
adults, I hope.
‘Of course.’ Yvette blinks at me as though I’m stupid.
‘Then why don’t you check it? You’ll see the accident with the jewellery
stand. You won’t see me pocketing that.’ I give the necklace a cursory
glance. ‘And then you can call the police off so they can fight actual crime.’
‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’ Yvette leans across the desk towards me,
the palms of her hands pressed down either side of the sandwich bag as she
practically snarls at me. Jeez, she’s as bad as Noel. I’m surprised she isn’t
recording this exchange (‘For the tape, I’m eye-balling the accused’).
‘To be proved innocent and go home?’ I lean across the desk too. We’re
almost nose-to-nose. ‘Yes, I’d like that very much.’
‘You’d like me to call off the police so you can get away with it. Well,
it isn’t happening.’ She leans back in her chair again, her arms folding,
eyebrow raising. ‘I’ve had it with you lot. Thinking you can come into my shop
and clear the place.’ She slaps the desk with the palm of her hand, and the
sudden noise makes me jump, jarring my throbbing tailbone. ‘I’m not having it
any more. I’m not having head office thinking I can’t run this shop. I’m not
losing my job just so you can fund your drug habit. I’m saying enough.
The police will come and I will do everything in my power to have you
prosecuted.’
Prosecuted? Drug habit? She really is as gung-ho as Noel. Any minute now
she’s going to take my prints and read me my rights.
‘Please, just have a look at the CCTV.’ I lean back in my chair, wincing
as the pressure increases on my tailbone. I open my mouth to argue my case a
bit more, but the office door swings opens and Noel sticks his head into the
room.
‘Plod’s here. Shall I send him in?’
‘Yes please.’ Yvette smiles, slow and toothy and panto villain-like.
‘Justice is about to prevail.’
My Top Five All-Time Crushes:
1. Justin Timberlake
2. Billie Joe Armstrong
3. Usher
4. Harry Styles
5. Paul ‘Franko’ Franks
***
Two
The
office feels extremely small and cluttered all of a sudden. The walls seem to
have crept in closer, and the stacks of lever arch files and piles of paper
appear to be towering even more precariously on every surface, and who the hell
cut off the oxygen supply because I’m puffing away here but no air seems to be
going in. My chest aches and it has nothing to do with the possibly cracked
ribs. I know I didn’t steal that gaudy bagged-up necklace (at least, not
intentionally) but I’m filled with guilt as the door opens fully and I see the
shiny shoes of the policeman step onto the miniscule bit of available carpet.
My palms are sweating so profusely, I fear I’m about to fill the tiny room and
drown us all. Luckily, with all the moisture hightailing it to my palms, my
mouth has been left desert-dry, rendering me unable to speak because I think
I’d confess right now if I could, just to get out of this suffocating room.
I need to add another item to today’s to-do list when I get out of here:
do not, under any circumstances, confess to a crime you did not commit.
‘Cleo?’ The policeman has squeezed into the room, side-stepping into the
narrow gap between the desk and the window, and is looking down at me with a
mixture of surprise and delight. ‘Cleo Parker?’
‘That’s her.’ Noel has followed the policeman into the room, cramming
himself so close to the fella it should be classed as a sexual encounter.
‘She’s the culprit. Caught her red-handed, I did. Banged. To. Rights.’
‘It is still Parker, isn’t it?’ The policeman has totally blanked Noel,
whose face has crumpled in disbelief. No congratulations? No pat on the back?
Not even a flicker of acknowledgement of his heroic act? ‘You never know these
days. Everybody’s getting married. Courtney Marsh is Courtney Clarke now, and
Shelby Austin is Shelby…’ He shakes his head. ‘I’ve forgotten now, but it isn’t
Austin. Even Spencer Harvey got married, though obviously he didn’t change his
name.’ He laughs, his whole face lighting up the way it used to do. Bright
white teeth, blue eyes sparkling. Such beautiful blue eyes…
‘It’s PC Paul Franks now.’ He
attempts to spread his arms wide, to showcase the uniform, but Noel is in the
way and ends up with an elbow in the gut.
‘What’s going on here?’ Yvette
looks from the policeman to me and back again, frown lines deepening on her
forehead. ‘Do you two know each other?’
‘We went to school together.’
Franko – PC Paul Franks – perches on the desk, facing me so his back’s
blocking my view of Yvette. ‘We haven’t seen each other for years. How long has
it been? A decade?’
‘Nine years.’ The last time I
saw Franko was the night before I left our little seaside town to travel across
the world. I wasn’t the only one leaving – Sienna had the seat booked next to
mine on the flight, and Peter and Courtney were leaving for university in a
couple of days, so we’d organised a final boozy get-together in the Red Lion.
It had been an amazing night, where we spilled out onto the beach at kicking
out time and splashed in the shallows without taking our shoes and socks off.
Franko walked me home afterwards, our soggy shoes slapping the pavement, and he
kissed me on the doorstep, finally, after my three-year crush. I left the next
day and I haven’t seen him since, until now, when he’s possibly going to arrest
me for nicking an ugly beetle necklace.
‘Wow, nine years. Only feels
like yesterday.’ Franko shakes his head and laughs wistfully. ‘Have you kept in
touch with the others? I think I’m friends with most of us on Facebook. I
haven’t seen you on there, though.’
‘I’m not on Facebook.’
Franko laughs. ‘Everyone’s
on Facebook. Even my mum.’
‘Not me.’ Not since my ex
stalked me across my social media until I deleted the lot, but Franko doesn’t
need to know about my disastrous love life. And neither do Noel and Yvette,
come to think of it.
‘You always were different. Do
you remember when you had those multicoloured dreads? They were pretty cool.’
I’d had the rainbow dreads when
we’d kissed on my doorstep. He’d played with an orange dreadlock, twisting it
between his finger and thumb while he told me how unique I was, his face moving
closer to mine until we were kissing. I wonder if he remembers that?
‘Excuse me. This reunion is all
very nice and heart-warming, but we have this to deal with.’ Yvette
snatches the sandwich bag from the desk and holds it in the air. I’m mortified
that not only is Franko here to question (and possibly arrest) me about the
alleged shoplifting, but he’ll think I’ve tried to nab the monstrosity dangling
in the bag from Yvette’s fingers.
‘You gonna nick her or what?’
Noel looks me up and down, lip curled as though he’s just detected a whiff of
dog shit in the air.
‘Nobody’s getting nicked.’
Franko winks at me. ‘Not yet.’ He drags a notebook from his jacket pocket and
flicks it open. ‘Shall we start from the beginning?’
‘If we start with the CCTV,
we’ll get this sorted a lot quicker.’ I lean over, so I can see past Franko and
look across the desk at Yvette, whose face is twisted up and lined like an old
prune. I think she was expecting me to be handcuffed and in the back of a cop
car by now.
‘I take it you have CCTV in
place?’ Franko twists so he’s facing Yvette. Her face smooths out as she beams
back at him.
‘Of course. Noel, would you like
to lead the way?’
The security guard thrusts his
shoulders back, his chin tilted in the air. ‘Of course, ma’am. Follow me,
officer.’
What a kiss-arse. Noel seems to
be under the impression that he’s been tasked with an important job, when in
reality, he has to lead the way because he’s blocking the doorway of the
cramped office. Nobody can vacate until Noel does.
‘I didn’t know you were back up
north.’ Franko helps me to clamber over the chair, which is wedged in between
the wall and desk. It’s undignified and my tailbone feels as though it’s being
poked with a red-hot poker, but at least I get to hold onto Franko’s arm. My
teenage self would be hyperventilating at his close proximity. ‘Didn’t you move
down south somewhere?’
Franko steadies me as I make my
final hop over the chair. ‘Ashford. In Kent. Moved in with my dad for a bit
until I got my own place. Moved back this way a couple of years ago. My mum’s
still in Clifton. Still on Woodland Road, actually.’ Franko shakes his head. ‘I
don’t know how people can stay in that crappy little town their whole lives.
Not like us, eh? Got out of that dump as soon as we could.’
‘Yeah.’ I turn away from Franko
and follow Noel along the narrow corridor.
‘Did you and Sienna make it
around the world like you always said you would?’
‘Sienna did. She met a guy in
New Zealand and married him. They’ve got kids and everything.’ Two of them, the
last I heard, but that was couple of years ago, before the social media cull.
How did my best friend become nothing but a Facebook acquaintance?
‘Two kids? Wow. I can’t imagine
Sienna as a mum. She was always such a free spirit. Like you.’
‘Yeah.’ I smile weakly. I’m such
a free spirit, I boomeranged back to our sedate home town after a matter of
weeks and failed to escape again. Didn’t even try to.
‘Shelby had a baby a few months
ago. Peter’s the godfather. Can you believe it? Peter, who used to get
shitfaced on weed every night and drew cock and balls on every surface he came
across is a godfather. Mind you, he’s respectable now. He’s a doctor.’
Franko snorts. ‘Peter, a doctor. Mad.’ He shakes his head. ‘His wife’s a doctor
as well. Nancy. They’re having a baby in a few months. They’re down in
Buckinghamshire. Everyone seems to have migrated south, apart from Demi. She’s
in Edinburgh. She has her own interior design company and she was on telly last
year, on that home makeover show on the BBC.’ The corridor has opened up into a
large storage space packed with boxes and rails of clothes. I hope Franko
doesn’t ask me any questions about this Demi person, because I have no idea who
he’s talking about. ‘What brings you back this way?’
We’re currently in Preston, a
twenty-minute train ride from the seaside town where we grew up and where I
still live. It’s where I do my shopping because you can’t escape fish and chip
shops in Clifton-on-Sea but finding a Primark or Topshop is impossible.
‘I had to move back home. My
grandad had a stroke.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Franko places a
hand on my shoulder and my stomach flips, just as it would have done a decade
ago. ‘Is he okay?’
‘He made a pretty good recovery,
but he had another stroke a couple of years ago. A big one and… well, you
know.’ I look down at my shoes as they move towards the cluster of monitors
squeezed onto a desk in the far right corner of the room. ‘I stayed behind, to
help look after my gran. Luckily, I was able to transfer to the Preston
office.’
What am I talking about? I work
in a fish and chip shop in Clifton-on-Sea. There is no office, unless you count
the little filing cabinet in the back room where Russell and Jed keep the
accounts. There certainly isn’t a Preston office to transfer to. I did not add
‘lie through your teeth’ on today’s to-do list, but it looks as though I’m
doing it anyway.
‘What publication do you work
for?’ I turn and frown at Franko. Publication? ‘Didn’t you want to be a
journalist?’
‘I did.’ But not a boring,
serious journalist. I wanted to report on celebrities and get my mitts on all
the juicy goss before anybody else. ‘But I changed my mind.’ This isn’t
technically a lie. After returning to Clifton-on-Sea to help look after my grandad,
I took on a temporary job at the fish and chip shop. Nine years later, I’m
still there. In fact, I’m assistant manager.
‘What is it you do?’ We’ve
reached the corner of the large storage space, where the monitors are set up,
and I use it as a distraction from Franko’s question and turn to Noel instead.
‘You need to load up the footage
from the perfume section. That’s where the necklace must have come from, when
the display rack fell on top of me.’
‘A display rack fell on top of
you?’ Franko’s hand is on my arm. My stomach dances again. ‘Are you okay?’
Finally, some sympathy over my
ordeal instead of accusations!
‘Let’s go back to when she
entered the store, shall we?’ Yvette motions for Noel to sit down at the desk.
‘We’ll track her and find the moment she pockets the necklace, and then the
little criminal can actually be dealt with instead of having a cosy catch up
with the policeman.’
The most embarrassing moments of my life so far:
The time the door jammed in the school’s loo, and instead of helping me to get out, Sienna gathered all our mates so they could piss themselves laughing at me
My first kiss: there were braces, too much slobber, and all our mates jeering from the sidelines
On the Ferris wheel on a particularly windy
day. One of my dreads ended up tangled around the pole. Instead of helping me,
Sienna laughed so hard she almost threw up. The ticket guy thought I was
messing around and wouldn’t stop the ride. I went round three times before I
managed to untangle myself – and the ticket guy made me pay for the extra ride
***
Three
Reliving
the moment I was rugby-tackled by a hyped-up pre-teen on the screen is even
worse than the actual event somehow. It’s painful, in a cringey, horrifying
way, and my arse and ribs are still throbbing, plus there are three more
witnesses, all wincing as I’m catapulted into the display rack. There’s a
collective holding of breath as I lurch into the merchandise, my fingers
grasping onto the metal stand, and it comes rushing out as the Cleo on screen
manages to stay upright. But then she stumbles backwards, still holding onto
the rack, and ends up on her back, straddled by the display unit.
‘Ouch.’ Noel glances at me out of the corner of his eye, his mouth pulled
down at the corners. ‘That must have hurt.’
‘It did.’ My hand instinctively moves towards my tailbone, but I manage
to stop myself before I rub my bum in public. ‘Still does.’
‘Do you need to get checked out?’ Franko’s hand is back on my arm. It’s
almost worth the pain and humiliation for the contact with my old super-crush.
Almost.
‘Nah. I’m made of tough stuff. Might not be able to sit down comfortably
for a week but I’ll live.’
‘Do you want me to go and hunt that kid down and give him a caution?’
Franko grins at me and I smile goofily back at him. I can’t help it. This is
nice (apart from the throbbing tailbone and aching ribs). It’s fate, surely.
Two people brought back together after almost a decade after a freak,
mortifying accident. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for. My life came to
a standstill when I returned to Clifton-on-Sea before I’d even gained a suntan
and I’ve been coasting ever since. But this could be the kickstart I’ve needed
to get back on track. It’ll certainly be a tale to tell the grandkids.
‘Excuse me.’ Yvette taps the monitor, where screen Cleo is being helped
to her feet by Coffee Breath. ‘This doesn’t prove she didn’t steal the
necklace. For all we know, this was all a setup. A scam. She could be on it
too.’ Yvette taps at the screen again, jabbing the image of Coffee Breath as
she wrenches the display rack into an upright position.
‘Look! There!’ It’s me jabbing at the screen now. The floor is littered
with objects that were dislodged when the display rack attacked me (I would
have picked them up, but I was in agony) and there’s my shopping bag, right
next to the carnage. Screen Cleo picks up the bag and hobbles away. ‘See? I
didn’t nick anything. It was an accident beyond my control. You can’t arrest me
for that.’ I look at Franko, my eyes widening. ‘Can you?’
Franko shakes his head. ‘Looks like a clear mishap to me.’
‘Are you kidding me?’ Yvette jabs the monitor so hard, I’m surprised it
doesn’t topple over. ‘This proves nothing! We didn’t actually see how
the necklace ended up in her bag.’
‘Come on, Yvette.’ Noel spreads his arms out before letting them fall and
slap against his thighs. ‘The poor kid was knocked for six before a display
unit fell on top of her. I’m surprised she isn’t suing us.’
‘She dragged that display unit on top of herself. We have
it on film. We have witnesses.’
Yvette is starting to go a bit purple as she rants, but we’ve already
started to walk away, led by Noel, who escorts us to the exit, apologising for
the accusations and wasting our time.
‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ Franko places a hand on my arm again
as we wander across the shopping centre’s concourse. Freedom tastes delicious,
but not as delicious as the Caramel Cortado I’m going to treat myself to. ‘Do
you need a lift anywhere? Home? Work?’ He looks me up and down, taking in my
leggings, oversized hoodie and glittery Converse. ‘Maybe not work. A&E?’
‘I’m fine, really. And I don’t need a lift, thanks.’ I reach into the
pocket at the front of my hoodie and pull out my keys, giving them a jingle
before shoving them back inside. There are three sets of keys attached to the
keyring I won on the sliding 2p machines at the arcade last summer, and not one
of them is a car key. I don’t drive, though I’ve always intended to learn at
some point. I applied for my provisional licence but haven’t got round to
booking any lessons yet. ‘I’m off to the gym, but I’ve got time for a quick
coffee first?’ I indicate the uber-casual clothes I’m wearing and hope my nose
doesn’t start to grow. I have never stepped foot in a gym in my life. I don’t
even have the pretence of an unused membership card tucked in my purse.
‘No coffee for me, thanks. I’m detoxing.’
I try not to gape at Franko, but
it’s quite difficult to remain straight-faced. Detoxing? This is the boy who
chain-smoked his way through his mid-teens, who sat his maths GCSE while
hungover after Shelby’s sixteenth birthday party, and who spent his pocket
money on weed. I think he even sniffed glue for a bit when we were fourteen.
‘And I should get going now.’
Franko pats the radio up by his shoulder. ‘But we should get together for a
proper catch up. Are you free tonight?’
My heart is Riverdancing and my
feet are itching join in the joyous jig. It takes great effort to stop them
from flickering up and down on the gleaming concourse floor because Paul
‘Franko’ Franks has just asked me out on a date. At last. I have been
waiting for this moment since I was fifteen and I can’t quite believe it’s
happening.
Except.
Oh no.
I’m not free.
‘I can’t tonight.’ I pull a face
that doesn’t even come close to displaying the utter annoyance I feel right
now. ‘It’s my gran’s birthday. We’re having a party. Just a teeny one – close
family and friends – otherwise I’d invite you. Sorry.’ I pull another face, but
figure it probably doesn’t look very attractive and stop. ‘How about tomorrow
night?’
‘I can’t. Sorry.’ This time it’s
Franko pulling a face. It doesn’t look unattractive. I’m not sure he could
appear unattractive, with his shaggy blond hair and blue eyes. He still looks
like a surfer from a teen magazine poster, and I approve. ‘I won’t be here
tomorrow. This is my last shift.’ He pats the radio again. ‘I’ve transferred to
Bristol and I’m off in the morning.’
‘Oh.’ I somehow manage to push a
smile through the devastation. ‘That sucks.’
Understatement! This was
supposed to be it. The start of our new life together. First date,
second date, fast-forward a bit to proposal, marriage, babies. Maybe babies.
Probably not. I wonder how Franko feels about kids?
‘I’ll be back for Mum’s 50th
though. Couldn’t miss that. She’d kill me. We’ll meet up then.’ Franko’s radio
starts to make noise, and he backs away, raising his hand in farewell. ‘Get on
Facebook and add me. And the others. I’ll message you about getting together.’
‘When’s your mum’s birthday?’ I
call, but Franko’s already turned and is striding away.
Ten
minutes later, I’m dumping my shopping bag on the backseat of Mum’s Fiesta. I
ease myself onto my seat, trying not wince too much (but wincing a little bit,
in the hope that Mum will ask me what’s wrong so she can heap sympathy onto me
after my sorry tale).
‘Did you manage to find the right perfume?’
I’m trying to wriggle the seatbelt clasp into place one-handed, but stop
to look at Mum. ‘Oops.’
‘What do you mean, oops?’ Mum tuts and grabs the seatbelt, clicking it
into place for me.
‘I mean, I didn’t get round to getting Gran’s perfume.’ I shift in my
seat, sucking in an audible breath even though the discomfort from my bashed
tailbone has eased off significantly.
‘You were gone for over an hour.’ Mum glances down at the cardboard cup
in my hand. ‘And I see you found the time to grab a coffee. What have you been
doing all this time?’
‘I bought a dress, like you told me to.’ Apparently, ripped jeans and a flannel shirt aren’t ‘appropriate’ for a small
family gathering. ‘And I was going to get the perfume – I was looking at
them and everything…’
‘And then you got distracted?’ Mum sighs. ‘Oh, Cleo.’
‘Not distracted. Arrested.’
‘Arrested?’ Mum’s checking her mirrors, but her head snaps round to stare
wide-eyed at me.
‘Well, no, not arrested exactly. But I was detained by a power-tripping
store manager and her buffoon of a security guard.’ I feel a pang of guilt.
Noel had been quite kind during the walk back down to the store, even if he did
ruin it by suggesting we submit the footage to You’ve Been Framed and
split the two hundred and fifty quid, 50/50. ‘And the police did come to
question me.’
‘Question you about what? Oh, Cleo, what did you do?’
‘Nothing.’ I gape at Mum, outraged that she would immediately come
to the conclusion that I was guilty. She doesn’t even know what the bogus crime
was, yet I’ve been tried and convicted. ‘It was a miscarriage of justice.’ Mum
looks at me intensely until I start to squirm. I take a sip of my coffee, but
still she looks, saying nothing. ‘I was accused of shoplifting.’
‘Shoplifting?’
‘I didn’t do it. I didn’t steal anything. I wouldn’t. Especially not an
ugly beetle necklace.’
Mum takes in a huge breath, holding it for a few seconds before releasing
it. She checks her mirrors again before setting off. ‘Start from the beginning.
Tell me everything, even if you think I won’t like it.’
She still thinks I’m guilty then.
Thanks, Mum. Thanks a bunch.
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