It wasn’t exactly part of the plan that we’d end up down here. My sister Jade was doing all right at her school and I was certainly happy in mine. Mum was doing great, running a thriving business as a private caterer for posh people. And Dad worked as a freelance illustrator. We had a large rambling house in Islington, loads of mates round all the time. Happy families.
Then Dad had an affair. Not even a long one. Some girl at one of the studios he worked for. Didn’t last but he confessed all to Mum and that was the end of life as we knew it. Mum wanted a divorce and Dad moved out into a small flat while things got sorted.
Within the month, Mum had bundled Jade and me into a car, the removal vans followed and soon we were knocking on Gran’s door down here. She has an amazing Victorian house looking over the harbour at Anderton. Wrought iron balconies at the windows, lovely gardens at the front and back. Very picturesque. We used to visit every summer and it was great for a fortnight, then back to London. Grandad died ten years ago and the house is way too big for her on her own, as it has six bedrooms and two receptions. It was beginning to look run down before we got here. I think she’s happy enough with the plan as although she’s always kept herself busy, she now has company. Mum has made the place look fabulous. It’s like an advert out of Country and Home magazine. She’s even bringing in money from it as we take B&B guests.
I was well pissed off, though, as I wanted to live with Dad. He’s laid-back and easy to live with as opposed to Mum who is a major control freak and for ever organising everyone else’s life, as well as her own. But that plan was a no-go as our family home in Islington was soon put on the market. Dad’s moved to a semi decent place in Highgate since and when he first went there, I thought, excellent, now’s my chance, as there were two bedrooms. Then he got himself a new girlfriend. A new girlfriend with a daughter, Tamara, and she got the spare room. I’m still hoping that I can live there with them, although I haven’t broached the subject with Dad yet. That’s what the letter is going to be about. Next year I’ll be doing A-levels and my plan is to apply to a few sixth-form colleges in London. I’d sleep on the sofa at Dad’s or under the dining table, I don’t care as long as he lets me live up there where I belong.
‘Hey, good drawings,’ said the waitress, when she brought me my cappuccino and looked down at my notepad.
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Thanks.’
As I’d been sitting there thinking about what to write to Dad, I’d been doodling my mates down here. If it hadn’t been for them, I’d have gone mental. I’d drawn Squidge looking like a character out of The Matrix as he does these days with his dark, spiky hair, long black leather coat and shades. Cat looking like a tabby cat with her short tousled hair and feline face. The stunning Lia, looking like Botticelli’s Venus with her long blond hair and willowy figure and Becca looking like Lady Macbeth with a dagger in hand ready to strike. Then me on the end, straw-blond hair, average height and looking stupid with big donkey’s ears attached to my head.
‘Anyone you know?’ said the waitress, smiling as she pointed at the donkey. She was attractive, blonde with pretty green eyes and enormous boobs. I hoped I hadn’t been staring at them (the boobs that is, not the eyes).
‘Yeah. It’s me,’ I said. ‘Twit of the week.’
‘Ah well,’ she said. ‘It’s only Monday.’ She had a nice voice: soft, Irish.
I wondered whether I should chat her up as she was definitely giving me the eye. I decided not to risk it as she looked older than me and might only be acting friendly to get a tip. Plus I couldn’t trust my feelings regarding girls today. As I’d just learnt from Becca, I couldn’t have got it more wrong. Maybe I’d come back another day when I was feeling more confident and check her out again.
‘Where’ve you been?’ asked Mum as soon as I walked through the door and into the kitchen. ‘Supper’s been ready for ages.’
‘Nowhere . . . just . . .’ I sniffed the air. It smelled wonderful, of cinnamon and baking. ‘What you cooking?’
‘Carrot cake. Not for you,’ she replied as she busied herself taking cakes out of the oven. ‘Your dinner is on top of the oven. Probably dried up by now. Oh, and some girl has been phoning. About ten times. When you speak to her, ask her not to call at mealtimes. How was school?’
‘What girl?’
‘Ask your gran or Jade. They took the calls. Now come and eat,’ she said as she piled a plate for me from the pan. I suddenly realised that despite the trauma of the day, I was starving. Pasta in tomato sauce. That’ll do me. Although Mum works as a caterer and cooks the most exotic creations for all her clients, she does quick stuff for us. Not that I mind, I wouldn’t want to be eating posh nosh with balsamic whatsit every night. Pasta, chips, pizza and sausages. That’s what I like. And Mum hasn’t done much of her fancy cooking down here. There’s no call for it, except sometimes when the Axfords have a do. Now Mum bakes cakes and quiches to sell in Cat’s dad’s store. And she does breakfast for the B&B guests that we take in. She does it beautifully: freshly baked bread, organic everything, fresh herbs – but I don’t think half of them appreciate it. They just want the good old English fry-up in the morning. I think it’s a bit of a come down for her as she had a growing reputation up in London and there was even talk of her doing her own recipe book. Still, it was her choice. We could have stayed up there. She could have forgiven Dad, as goodness knows he begged her to in the beginning. Not now, though. He’s moved on and I don’t blame him. Mum can be scary when you get on her wrong side.
‘Aren’t you going to phone this girl?’ asked Mum when I’d finished supper.
‘Nah,’ I said. ‘Homework to do.’ And I retreated upstairs before she got me to do the washing up. It was probably Becca calling in a fit of remorse or worried that I might be upset. Pff to her, I thought. I’d had all the humiliation I could take for one day.
As soon as I got to my room, I put my headphones on, turned the volume up loud and closed my eyes. Nothing like music to obliterate your mind and that’s what I needed. Obliteration.
I was just drifting off nicely to a brilliant guitar riff when I felt something crawling up my nose.
‘Wa-arghhhh!’ I cried, leaping up, as there’s one thing I don’t like and that’s creepy crawlies. And down here in Cornwall, there are plenty of them.
Jade was standing by the bed laughing. With the headphones on, I hadn’t heard her come in and she’d been pushing a pencil up my nose.
‘Phone,’ she announced.
‘Ever heard of knocking?’ I asked.
‘Did. You didn’t answer. Probably too upset over the break up, huh?’
‘Who is it?’ I asked, ignoring her comment. That was another thing I didn’t like about being down here. At my old school there were over a thousand pupils and you could go about your business without everyone knowing it. The school here is much smaller and the slightest bit of gossip and it spreads like the Asian flu. If it had got to Jade already then most of school would know that I’d been dumped by tomorrow.
‘You’ll see. A blast from the past,’ she said, then smiled insincerely. ‘Not Becca. Obviously.’
Jade can be a right cow sometimes. Most times actually. And she was really mean to Becca last year when they both went in for a Pop Princess competition. She’s always had it in for her. I reckon she’s jealous as Becca is popular and Jade likes to think that she’s Queen Bee. She’s already got her own little clique of Year Ten wannabees round her at school. She likes to swan about as if she knows what’s cool because she went to school in London but like me, by now she’s probably way out of touch. All of them want to be models and can only ever talk blond highlights, handbags and pointy shoes.
‘Actually it was mutual between Bec and I. A joint decision,’ I said as I went down to the hall and picked up the phone. (Gran hasn’t got a portable yet.)
‘Yeah, right,’ Jade called after me. ‘Sounds more to me like she finally got her eyesight back.’
‘Hello?’
‘Hi,
Mac. It’s me,’ said the voice at the other end of the line.
‘Me?’
‘Yeah. Me. Don’t you recognise my voice?’
‘Er . . . Nope.’
‘It’s Roz. Roz Williams. Remember?’
‘Oh yeah. Right. Roz. Hey, long time.’
It had been years since I’d seen Roz. We used to go to the same junior school up in London and later, Mum used to cater for her parents’ posh dinner parties. She was a skinny little thing. Dead bossy and more Jade’s friend than mine. I remember how she used to like to play teachers and pupils. Course she was always the teacher and she would line me and my mates up in her bedroom and whack us with her Barbie doll if we didn’t do as she said. She was funny. Annoying, but funny. We’ve e-mailed a few times and I usually send her one of my cartoon cards for her birthday and Christmas as she seems to like getting them. Also, I suspect that she’s behind a couple of the Valentine cards I’ve received in the last couple of years. I reckon she always had a bit of a crush on me, although no way is she my type.
‘Yes. Years,’ she said. ‘How you doing down there?’
‘Yeah, great. Love it,’ I lied. ‘So how are you?’
‘Good. I’m good. Listen, reason I’m calling is that I have something to tell you that you might be veeeery interested in. You know Dad is features editor at Kudos?’
‘Yeah.’ Course I did. Kudos was huge. Everyone had heard of it.
‘Well, in one of the autumn editions, they’re going to be doing a supplement on teen talent. People to watch, that sort of thing . . .’
‘Cool. I’ll get a copy when it comes out.’
‘No, listen, stupid. I thought of you.’
‘Me? Why?’
‘Just listen. They’re going to do a spread on four up-and-coming new faces. All teenagers. A singer-songwriter, an actor, a writer and an artist. They’ll probably be photographed but I suggested that, as the supplement is about teen talent, it might be cool if they got a teenage cartoonist to do caricatures of the people featured. Dad loved the idea and I showed him some of the cards you’ve sent me and suggested you. He said he’d have a look at your stuff. Course, there will be other people pitching for it as well but your cartoons are brill. I’m sure you’d get it.’
Yeah, right, I thought. As if her dad would give a gig like that to a boy just because his daughter fancied him. My first instinct was to say, no, I can’t do it. They’re bound to be looking for a professional, not some kid living in the back of beyond in Cornwall.
‘But I’ve never even sent any of my cartoons off anywhere, to any kind of publication . . .’
‘So now’s the time to start.’
‘And this is GCSE year, I have a ton of homework already and . . . I don’t know, Roz. Look, I’ll be honest. I’m not up in London any more and I can’t just up and . . .’
‘So what do you do down there all the time? Not a lot by what Jade told me before. What would you be doing next weekend that would be more important for your future career? Just homework?’
She had a point. What would I be doing? Trying to avoid Becca and the rest of the peninsula until the gossip about us had become old news. Another weekend wandering the ghost town and waiting for the summer when at least some tourists start to pass through.
‘I guess, we don’t do much. Jade’s right. Not much happening down here at all. In fact, it’s so quiet that we’ve had to resort to playing daft games like Truth, Dare, Kiss or Promise.’
‘You’re kidding? We used to play that in junior school.’
‘Tell me about it. Cornwall’s not exactly the happening place. It only comes to life in the summer. Although we did have a film crew down here in the Easter holidays.’
Roz wasn’t listening. ‘Truth, Dare, huh? OK. Can anyone play?’
‘Yeah, although it’s usually just me, Squidge and . . .’
‘OK, then. Count me in. I’ve got something to add to your game. A double dare. I double dare that you go for the cartooning job and come up to London to stay here and take me out somewhere. We’ve got loads of room so it won’t be a problem.’
I laughed. Same old bossy Roz. She hadn’t changed a bit.
‘We could take in a movie, hang out at Camden Lock . . .’
She was beginning to get to me as the tempting possibility of a weekend in London played through my mind. I could see my old mates. Revisit all my favourite hang-outs. See what’s happening at the Tate. Maybe even talk to Dad about going back up there to live. Better to talk it over in person with him than sending the letter that I ‘d only got started up at the café. But how would I get to London? Mum would never agree. No. It wasn’t going to happen.
‘Look, Roz, I’m seriously grateful that you thought of me but I don’t th–’
‘Too late. I’ve double dared you. And it was my idea. I’m going to look at right fool having talked Dad into it then my main contender won’t come through. Remember when we used to play ‘School’ and I used to whack you with my Barbie if you’d been misbehaving?’
‘Oh yeah,’ I said, laughing. ‘I’ve still got the scars.’
‘Well, I’ve still got her. I’ve got her in my hand right now and her golden locks are swishing through the air as we speak, ready to whack you if you don’t come. And I did double dare you. I remember the rules of the game. You can’t go back on it or you’ll have bad luck for a trillion years.’
I laughed again. ‘Fair point,’ I said. ‘And although I don’t want the shame of death by nylon tresses or a trillion years bad luck, I just can’t . . .’
‘No such word as “can’t”. No one ever tell you that? Come on, go for it. Don’t be a wuss.’
‘Look, I’ll try, OK? That’s all I can say. I’ll try. But I’d like to stay with my dad if I come as I don’t get to see him that often and . . .’
‘Fair enough. But you’ll still take me out somewhere?’
‘I’ll still take you out somewhere, that is if I come.’
‘When you come, not if. I’ll let Dad know that you’ll be coming up to see him. He said next Saturday would be good. When the magazine gets started on something like this, they don’t hang around. It will be such a brilliant experience for you. A taster of what it’s going to be like when you’re working full time.’
The idea was beginning to appeal more and more. ‘I’ll call you and let you know what’s happening,’ I said.
I felt fused with energy by the time I’d put the phone down. A weekend in London. And if I stayed with Dad, I could broach the idea of me coming to London for my A-levels. It wouldn’t be so hard if I had to see Roz for an hour or so. And I’d meet with her dad, I owed her that. No way would he give me the cartooning gig. It just wouldn’t happen, but a weekend away would be perfect.
Now all I needed to do was put the idea to Mum.
MY OWN CARTOONING GIG in a major glossy! I could feel the adrenaline starting to flow as my imagination went into overdrive. It would be brilliant on my CV and would no doubt help me get a place at a top art college. And the acclaim that would go with it. Oh man. It would raise my babe appeal no end. I read in one of Jade’s girlie mags, that after a GSOH (good sense of humour), the next thing that girls are attracted to is talent. What better proof of talent than my own work published? I could flash the supplement around or better still, leave it in places where people would come across it, like the school library. The news would soon spread round the area.
‘Did you hear about Tom Macey? The boy that Becca dumped. He was way out of her league. Have you seen the cartoons he did in Kudos? Brilliant.’
‘And he’s only sixteen. Got a place at St Martin’s, I believe. Only the best get in there.’
‘I always thought he had something special. Wonder if he’s single?’
Oh yes, Roz Williams. An hour or so with you will be well worth the effort.
I pulled my portfolio out from behind my desk and had a quick flick through. So what’s in here? I asked myself as I laid my work out on the floor.
There was a whole bunch of superheroes from when I was in Year Seven and Eight. Superman, Batman, Spider-Man – I was really into them back then but I’ve moved on since. They aren’t bad but they don’t show much individual style (mainly because I copied them from comics). But I remembered what Mr Barnes, our art teacher, said about preparing our portfolio for college interviews. He said to put in a variety of work so that the interviewer can see that you are versatile.
Next was a load of stuff from when I went through my Simpsons phase and everyone I drew looked like Homer, Marge, Bart or Lisa.
A load of cards for Christmas and birthdays. Yeah, one or two of them are worth putting in. And I’d won a prize for one I’d done in Year Ten. It was of the bunch of snowmen, singing, ‘There’s no business like snow business’.
Couple of cartoon strips, the kind of thing you see in the tabloids. Yeah, I’ll bung one of them in.
Pages and pages of hands and feet. There’s a real art to getting cartoon hands and feet right and I was good at them. Maybe won’t put them in though, I decided, as I reckoned Mr Williams was going to want more proof of skill than a drawing of the perfect cartoon foot.
Pages of special effects: cold, hot, melting, wet, shiny, smoke.
People of different nationalities: Scottish, Chinese, Italian, African, French, German.
Loads of individual drawings of people of different shapes and sizes.
Drawings of all the clichés: clowns, vampires, drunks, fools, evil, tarty, handsome rogue.
Cartoons showing movement.
Cartoons showing that I understood perspective. One-, two-, three-dimensional.
Cartoon cars, animals, landscapes.
Double Dare Page 2
