2: Chocolate Box Girls: Marshmallow Skye

by Cathy Cassidy

  ‘Girls?’ Alfie checks.

  ‘Well … maybe,’ I shrug.

  ‘But I thought girls liked funny boys?’ he questions. ‘Making someone laugh is supposed to be a good thing, isn’t it? Besides, I am going to be a stand-up comedian one day. It’s probably my only talent!’

  ‘You have lots of talents!’ I say kindly. ‘Probably. Just … maybe not comedy. You need people to laugh with you, not at you. I think there’s more to you than class clown.’

  Alfie stares gloomily down at the remnants of the cake he has just demolished. ‘Maybe I could be a chef?’

  ‘Maybe,’ I agree. ‘Whatever you decide to do – you are an OK person, Alfie Anderson, underneath all the jokes and the messing about.’

  It’s true … there is a kind, caring side to Alfie if you take the time to look for it. I think that Millie is right, that he has potential, and that one day, not too far from now, he might make someone a pretty neat boyfriend. As long as it’s not me, of course.

  Someone raps on the window and I just about jump out of my skin – it’s Coco and a bunch of her friends, pulling silly faces and laughing themselves stupid.

  ‘Get lost!’ I yell, trying to hide behind the menu, and eventually she gets fed up and drifts away.

  ‘Have your sisters been giving you a hard time?’ Alfie grins. ‘Summer too?’

  ‘She’s the worst,’ I admit. ‘She thinks it’s hugely funny, you hanging around me and talking to me on the bus. And you have to admit, to outsiders, this could look a little bit like a date. You haven’t actually done anything to make it clear to people that it’s not. It’s like you want them to think there’s something going on!’

  Alfie grins. ‘Well, it won’t do my reputation any harm to be seen out with you, will it?’

  ‘Alfie! I do not want to be part of your “irresistible to women” project. OK?’

  ‘OK,’ he laughs. ‘So. About Summer … you were saying … maybe she’s just a bit jealous?’

  ‘Er … no, I don’t think so!’ I say.

  His face falls, and that’s when the penny drops.

  He is not crushing on Tia at all.

  I understand now why Alfie tagged along with us on Halloween, why he cut the clowning so fast, the day of Mr Wolfe and the broken window. This is why he went pink in the school canteen, embarrassed to be caught with jam on his face. And this is why I am the perfect person to ask for advice, because of course, I know my twin sister better than anyone else alive.

  Alfie’s mystery girl is Summer.

  I just can’t work out why that seems to hurt so much.

  13

  I’m sitting on the caravan steps in the sunshine, beside a boy with sun-brown skin and laughing eyes and a red neckerchief. Dark wavy hair falls across his cheek in unruly waves, and I want to reach out and touch it, but I don’t, of course. Finch takes my hand and the silver bracelets jangle, and he leans close, so close that I can smell woodsmoke on his hair …

  I’m woken up by a huge bang from downstairs, and the dream crashes abruptly. It’s Sunday morning, I remember – but normally it’s not this … loud.

  ‘Something’s going on,’ Summer says from the doorway. ‘Quick!’

  When I get down to the kitchen, Paddy is picking up pieces of broken plate and Fred the dog is hoovering up bacon and everyone else is gathered round the table, looking at a glossy magazine.

  ‘Look!’ Summer yelps. ‘Look at this! You won’t believe it!’

  ‘It’s us!’ Coco cuts in. ‘We’re famous!’

  I lean in to look, and there on the pages of the Sunday paper’s magazine are pictures of us, taken in the summer at the Chocolate Festival we staged to launch the Chocolate Box business. The feature is titled The Chocolate Box, and there are four bright pages of festival photos along with the feature. There are the chocolates, piled up in little pyramids beside the handpainted boxes that give the business its name. There is the bunting hanging from the treetops, the stalls, the chocolate cafe, the gypsy caravan, the crowds of people. There are Mum and Paddy, smiling into the camera, holding boxes of truffles.

  And there we are, Honey, Coco, Cherry, Summer and me, dressed in our cute little chocolate fairy costumes, all brown velvet and golden-brown tutu skirts and little wings, standing together in the dappled sunlight. The tagline on the photo reads The Chocolate Box Girls.

  ‘Wow!’ I breathe. ‘It’s the national paper – not just the Gazette!’

  ‘We look great!’ Cherry says. ‘Like proper sisters!’

  ‘We are proper sisters,’ I tell her. ‘Definitely.’

  It was only a few months ago, but in that picture we look happy, hopeful and together, in a way we really haven’t been since. Honey’s wavy golden hair is still waist-length, glinting in the light. Back then she still had Shay, of course – or thought she did. And Dad wasn’t living on the other side of the planet. It’s not just Honey either – Summer and I are grinning, leaning against each other. There were no fallouts, no secrets, and no broken promises between us back then.

  ‘It’s great publicity,’ Mum is saying. ‘And the write-up is just as good as the photos … it talks about the truffles being handmade, and the boxes handpainted. Best of all, it says they taste amazing!’

  ‘Well, they do!’ I shrug. ‘They’re awesome!’

  Paddy finishes clearing up the broken plates and comes over to join us, his smile a mile wide.

  ‘Pure brilliant,’ he says in his soft Glaswegian accent. ‘The feature mentions it all – the B&B, the chocolate business – and lists all the websites too! The Chocolate Festival got the business off to a good start, but things have been pretty quiet since then. This should give us the boost we really need.’

  ‘I hope so,’ Mum says, grinning. ‘The timing is perfect. This could make our Christmas!’

  I’m relieved – I know that Mum and Paddy have been struggling with money. This could really help.

  ‘I thought those pictures were for the local newspaper, though,’ Cherry says, baffled. ‘The Gazette did a feature ages ago, didn’t they?’

  ‘The reporter mentioned that she’d like to pitch it to one of the Sunday papers,’ Mum recalls. ‘I didn’t expect anything would actually come of it, though! Can we cope, if we do have lots of orders?’

  ‘No worries,’ Paddy says. ‘We’ll do it.’

  There’s a timid knock, and one of the B&B guests puts his head round the kitchen door.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt,’ he says. ‘It’s just that we’re still waiting for our bacon and eggs!’

  Mum’s hands fly up to her face. ‘I dropped it!’ she admits. ‘It was the shock! I’m so sorry … I’ll be right with you.’

  She runs over to the fridge and pulls out fresh supplies, while Paddy shows the bemused guest the Sunday supplement magazine and sends him back into the guest breakfast room clutching it. By the time Mum has produced two more cooked breakfasts and a round of toast, Paddy has headed off to the village to buy more copies of the newspaper.

  I take the guest breakfasts through – better late than never.

  After that, business really does start to pick up. Orders flood in, by mail, by phone, by email. People stop us in the street and ask if we can do them a special box of truffles for a birthday or anniversary, and Paddy is spending long hours in the workshop making sure the orders are filled and ready to send out. We still have some handpainted boxes left over from the Chocolate Festival, but Mum is working on a new range for the Christmas orders.

  Cherry and Honey get lots of comments at the high school, and people keep telling Honey she should be a model. She dumps Alex, the motorbike boy, for an arty Year Twelve lad who wants to photograph her for his portfolio. She has such a hectic social life that it’s starting to feel like she is one of the B&B guests, only not quite as friendly and much less likely to appear for breakfast. We hardly ever see her.

  Even at Exmoor Park Middle School, Summer, Coco and I are minor celebrities, for a few days at least. We are not the
Tanberry sisters any more – we are the Chocolate Box Girls, and there are lots of jokes about tutus and fairy wings.

  The teachers get in on the act too, and Paddy sends in a big box of sample chocolates for the staffroom. By the end of the day we have taken seven new orders. Mr Wolfe orders a box for his girlfriend, which makes us giggle.

  ‘Even Mr Wolfe has a girlfriend,’ Millie says, shaking her head. ‘Unreal. Don’t you ever feel like life is passing you by?’

  ‘Er … no,’ I reply.

  ‘We should go to town on Saturday,’ Millie ploughs on. ‘All of us. You and me and Summer and Tia. It’d be cool. We could try on clothes and check out the make-up testers in Boots and hang out in the new cafe on the Esplanade. Loads of kids go in there, it’s supposed to be really cool. And you and Summer are kind of famous now, so I bet people would recognize you. Boys might come over and chat us up! Older boys, from the high school!’

  One of the things I have always liked about Millie is her enthusiasm – whatever she’s into, she really goes for it, whether it’s ballet, or Barbie dolls, or ponies, or vampire books. This whole boys thing is the same – but it’s starting to get a bit full-on.

  ‘I doubt it,’ I say to her. ‘I can’t, anyway, not this Saturday. I promised Paddy I’d help him with the chocolate orders. You can come over and help too, if you want. Besides, I am not interested in boys, you know that!’

  ‘Skye, you are no fun any more!’ Millie huffs. ‘I bet Summer and Tia would go!’

  ‘Summer’s got a ballet class,’ I shrug.

  ‘Bor-ing,’ Millie grumbles, but she drops the subject. I’m starting to think my best friend is morphing into someone I don’t actually know any more. Not so long ago she’d have jumped at the chance to help with the chocolate making, but these days she is obsessed with boys and make-up and whether she will ever be kissed.

  And, even though there’s one special boy I think about a lot myself, I think Millie’s obsession is kind of boring, actually.

  14

  A boy with dark, wavy hair and a red neckerchief is sitting in the dappled sunlight beneath the hazel trees, when out of nowhere a bird swoops down, a quick flash of brown and red. It lands on the ground in front of him, head to one side, chirping softly. The boy stretches out his hand slowly and the bird hops on, and I hold my breath, enchanted.

  Then the bird is gone. Finch looks up at me, grinning, and my heart is racing …

  I learn to keep the dreams to myself, but some days it is a struggle to come back to the real world. I never used to sleep in, but lately even the radio alarm doesn’t always wake me and Summer has to shake me and pull the duvet back so that the cold air rushes in and brings me back to reality.

  The truth is, reality is losing its appeal.

  Every day I choose something from Clara’s trunk to wear, one of the cotton petticoats or the bracelets or the little cloche hat. I am getting hooked on 1920s style, hooked on Clara’s clothes, and when I wear them I feel close to her, and more importantly, close to the dream – to Finch.

  ‘You’re not still having those spooky dreams, are you?’ Summer asks on Saturday morning. She has just woken me up (again), before she dashes off to her ballet class. ‘About Clara? Only you’re miles away, these days. Distracted.’

  My twin’s face is anxious, disapproving, and my reaction is instant – protect, conceal, deny.

  ‘Dreams?’ I echo. ‘What dreams?’

  It’s not exactly a lie.

  Sometimes I look in the mirror, my face shadowed beneath the cloche hat, and think I catch a glimpse of someone else, a girl from long ago. Sometimes, I even think the girl is trying to tell me something. I remember Clara’s letters – weirdly, I never found them. I decide to look for them again – at the moment they’re my only hope of finding some clues to what the dreams mean.

  Part of me doesn’t want to question it all too closely, in case the dreams evaporate, but another part of me needs to know whether it’s Clara who’s trying to tell me something … or just my own imagination, conjuring up a boy who’s too good to be true.

  I look again all morning until I have to help Mum with the B&B cleaning, but the letters are nowhere to be found. At lunchtime we are sitting round the kitchen table eating tomato soup and freshly baked bread rolls, when Summer gets back from ballet. I know she won’t like me asking, but I have to know.

  ‘Summer, you know those old letters from the trunk?’ I ask. ‘Have you seen them at all? I left them on the desk a week or so ago and they seem to have vanished into thin air …’

  ‘What letters?’ Summer says blankly.

  ‘You know … the bundle of letters addressed to Clara Travers. I thought you might have moved them or something.’

  Summer frowns. ‘I don’t know … I might have put them back in the trunk …’

  ‘They’re not there, though,’ I sigh. ‘I’ve looked. Could you have put them somewhere else?’

  Summer looks annoyed. ‘Look, I can’t remember – I probably didn’t move them at all, Skye. Why would I touch her spooky old letters?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I shrug. ‘I’m not blaming you, Summer, it’s just that I’ve lost them and it’s bugging me, that’s all. Mum … have you seen the letters from the trunk? Tidied them up or something?’

  ‘I don’t know, love,’ she says. ‘Sorry. I don’t think so – but to be honest we’re so manic with the chocolate orders it’s all I can do to keep on top of the B&B stuff lately. I haven’t tidied your rooms in a while. We’re busier with guests as well as the Chocolate Box, thanks to that article.’

  ‘If things stay this way after Christmas, we might have to look into employing an assistant,’ Paddy comments.

  ‘Wow,’ Coco grins. ‘That’s a good sign, isn’t it?’

  ‘Brilliant,’ Mum agrees. ‘Right now, though, we’re run off our feet. I don’t know what we’d do without your help, girls!’

  We’ve got into a routine of helping out in the workshop after school, assembling boxes and selecting chocolates and tying up the ribbon bows. Then we slide them into jiffy bags and Paddy takes everything down to the post office in time to catch the last pickup, and we get to eat any leftover truffles. Obviously, that is the best bit.

  Honey, who has made a rare lunchtime appearance, rolls her eyes. ‘It’s child labour,’ she says scathingly. ‘We do enough already, helping Mum with the guest rooms and breakfasts. What are we, slaves?’

  ‘You haven’t helped with the B&B stuff for ages,’ I say. ‘So you are definitely not a slave, anyway. The rest of us don’t mind. It’s fun!’

  ‘You think?’ Summer asks. I know she is only sticking up for Honey, but it’s not like my twin actually helps out as much as the rest of us anyhow. She always has ballet practice or dance-show rehearsal or something. Cherry, Coco and I do most of the work, and we are not complaining.

  ‘A few more chocolate orders won’t help us much anyhow.’ Honey shrugs. ‘How many thousands do you owe the bank again, Paddy?’

  ‘Actually …’ Paddy begins, but my big sister ignores him.

  ‘When the business falls flat on its face, how are you going to pay the debt?’ she demands. ‘Maybe you won’t. Maybe you’ll leave Mum to sort that out –’

  ‘Honey!’ Mum snaps. ‘That’s enough!’

  Paddy sighs. ‘She’s only trying to watch out for you,’ he says patiently. ‘You can’t really blame her for that.’

  ‘If it makes her rude, I can,’ Mum sighs. ‘I wish I could believe that Honey was just watching out for me, but sometimes I think she just likes to stir up trouble –’

  ‘Er, hello?’ Honey cuts in. ‘Who’s being rude now? You’re talking about me as if I’m not even here.’

  ‘You hardly ever are,’ I say, and Summer shoots me an angry look. She is fiercely loyal to Honey – but surely even she can see now that our big sister is out to make trouble?

  ‘Enough,’ Mum says. ‘If business stays brisk we’ll look into employing an assistant in the
spring, but right now your help is much appreciated, all of you. That’s what families do – help each other. It won’t be for long, but we’re up to our eyes at the moment, what with trying to get your new sister’s bedroom finished off as well –’

  Mum’s comment is like a red rag to a bull. I see Honey’s eyes flash with anger.

  ‘Cherry will never be my sister … wedding or no wedding,’ she bites out. ‘And right now, my money’s on no wedding.’

  ‘Honey, don’t be so mean!’ I argue. It’s not like me to get in the middle of a family drama, but I feel so sorry for Mum, and for Cherry, I have to say something. ‘Don’t you want Mum to be happy again, after everything Dad put her through? Don’t you want to be a part of this family?’

  Honey glares at me, her blue eyes icy cold.

  ‘My family fell apart,’ she bites out. ‘A while ago now. I thought we could put it back together, but I was wrong, because you all had other ideas. Now I’m stuck with a whole different set-up, and no, I don’t want to be a part of it, Skye, now that you ask.’

  I feel like I’ve been slapped.

  An awkward silence settles around us. Paddy’s bright smile slips and Cherry looks down at her soup bowl as if she would like to be anywhere at all but here. The rest of us struggle for a way out of the embarrassment, a way to put it all right, but there isn’t one.

  It strikes me suddenly that I do not like my big sister very much at all. I’m sick of creeping around her, trying to coax a smile or a friendly word. I’m sick of trying to be the peacemaker because if she saw a white flag she’d most likely tear it in two. Honey is pulling my family to pieces.

  ‘You never used to be like this,’ I say quietly. ‘I used to look up to you, Honey, you know? I thought you were the coolest big sister in the world, but I was wrong. You’re not cool at all … you’re shallow and spiteful and cruel!’

  ‘Skye, hush!’ Mum says, but it’s too late – Honey is on her feet, her lips trembling, eyes misted with tears. She slams out of the kitchen and runs up the stairs to her room.