‘She’s not a bad mother!’ I protest. ‘She’s brilliant!’
‘I know that,’ Maisie says. ‘But she is really, really sad and worried, and I am in trouble because I tried to cover for you and everything has gone all wrong. You have to come home now, Cookie, you really do. They’re in there now, looking at a map of Somerset because the letter you sent to Mr Zhao had a Somerset postmark.’
Abruptly, Maisie yelps and starts to cry again, and Mum’s voice comes on the line.
‘Jake? Jake, is that you? Just tell me where you are, love, please. I’m not cross, I’m not angry. I just need to know you’re safe!’
‘I’m safe,’ I say, my voice no more than a whisper. ‘Don’t worry about me, Mum. I’m trying to sort something out, something important, but I’ll be home really soon – I promise.’
‘Jake –’
I press the button to end the call, my heart thumping. I feel sick, shaken.
Time is running out. I’ve been seduced by Tanglewood, sidetracked by my sisters, distracted by new friendships and bike rides and beaches. I ran away and found a different life, and I liked it way too much, and forgot why I was here.
It feels strangely lonely to know that I can’t contact Maisie any more. I’m not stupid. I know that any communication with her will be intercepted by Mum from now on, and it’s my own fault. I spot a couple of texts from Harry and Mitch, saying they’re sorry they couldn’t cover for me any longer; but of course there is no email from Dad.
The hurt of it curls inside me like a virus, seeping through my body, making my heart ache. Even if I did turn up on his doorstep in Sydney, he’d probably slam the door in my face. I’ve been so patient, so polite; but the truth is, he just doesn’t care.
Dear Dad,
Well, it’s kind of a joke to call you that, but I am not sure what else to call you, so hey.
I know you won’t reply to this – why would you? You don’t want to face up to your mistakes. You don’t want to admit you have a son at all, because that would mean admitting you’re a cheat and liar, right? That you had a whole string of affairs and didn’t bother to face the consequences. You can’t admit I exist because that would be just plain embarrassing – after all, I was raised in a series of scaffy flats and rented houses, and I might be a little bit too rough around the edges to fit into your world.
You know what? I have never asked you for anything in my life. Not your name, not your love, not one single thing. And then something bad happened and I didn’t know where to turn, and I thought of you. I thought maybe you could make up for all those years of not being around, and actually help me. I thought it might be something you’d be glad to do.
More fool me.
I think sometimes it is easier not to have a dad at all than to have one who is so spectacularly rubbish.
I won’t be bothering you again.
Jake Cooke
I press SEND, and almost at once I am consumed by guilt. Why do I do it? Over and over, I act without thinking, get angry, get smart. It makes me feel better, for all of about five minutes – and then sense kicks in and I suss that I’ve actually made the whole situation worse.
I head up to the house and into the kitchen; Cherry is fixing herself a glass of orange juice from the fridge. ‘It’s so hot,’ she complains. ‘I – Cookie, what’s wrong? You look awful!’
I sigh. ‘Mum knows I’ve run away and Sheddie wants her to go to the police; my little sister just rang me crying, terrified the police would come after me and take me into care. Let’s face it, Dad is never going to answer my emails. The whole plan was rubbish, right from the start. If he was a good guy, he’d have stuck around in the first place, wouldn’t he?’
‘Maybe you’re just making it too easy for him,’ Cherry says. ‘I mean … emails … they’re very polite and easy to ignore, aren’t they?’
‘The one I’ve just sent wasn’t,’ I admit.
Cherry laughs. ‘Good! Maybe it’ll rattle him; make him see he can’t just keep quiet and hope you’ll go away. Don’t give up, Cookie – this isn’t just about getting the money for the repairs, is it? It’s about you making contact with Greg and him acknowledging you. Why not call him? Or Skype?’
‘Wouldn’t know where to start,’ I say. ‘If I rang, he’d just hang up.’
‘Skype then,’ Cherry says. ‘There has to be a way of doing it so that he’ll listen to you. What have you said in your emails so far? Does he know you’re here, with us?’
I frown. ‘No, I wanted to do this on my own. Big fail on that one, obviously.’
‘Maybe,’ she says. ‘Doing things solo is all very well, but it’s when you work together you really start to make a difference. Teamwork, yeah? But it’s good he doesn’t know you’re here – it does still leave us with the element of surprise. If we can get one of the others to Skype Greg – well, he’d have to take the call, wouldn’t he? And then you can take over. I bet Skye or Summer would do it, or Coco. But –’
‘But what?’
‘Well, Honey’s the one to ask, really. She knows Greg better than anyone; she’s lived with him. We can ask her to call – that’ll do it. And if that doesn’t sort things out, then we’ll pool our cash and get you a ticket back to London first thing tomorrow. OK?’
‘OK,’ I say.
For the first time in a week, real hope begins to unfurl inside me.
19
I am holed up in the turret room with Honey Tanberry at half one in the morning, sitting on the window seat, eating Jaffa Cakes and plotting. ‘You should have come to me in the first place,’ she says. ‘I’d have Skyped Dad days ago, and all this would have been sorted.’
She tips her head on one side and looks at me searchingly. ‘Plus – I thought we understood each other, Cookie? I thought we were mates. So how come you confided in Cherry, not me?’
‘She understood,’ I say simply, and Honey scowls.
‘She has to have everything,’ my half-sister explains. ‘My life, my boyfriend, my sisters, my mum – all of it. And now my brother too.’
I roll my eyes. ‘That’s rubbish and you know it,’ I argue. ‘Your life is better than it’s ever been, you told me so yourself. You’re at sixth-form college, your AS grades were good and your art teacher wants you to apply for degree courses. Maybe Shay and Cherry fell for each other, but that should be ancient history now. You told me Ash was the only boy you’d ever really cared about.’
‘Pity he doesn’t feel the same,’ Honey sulks. ‘Still no texts.’
‘He’ll be in touch,’ I say. ‘So, yeah, your mum and your sisters think you’re awesome and I do too, but I do not get why you’re so mean to your stepsister. It was her idea to ask you to get in touch with Greg – with Dad. And she didn’t tell on you when she found out about the fake phone chat you had with Paddy. She could have easily.’
Honey shrugs. ‘More fool her.’
I sigh. ‘It’s like kicking a kitten, Honey. I didn’t think you were that kind of person.’
She shrugs again. ‘What can I say? I have a mean streak.’
‘And I have a big mouth. You told me to get over it.’
‘I’m full of good advice,’ she quips. ‘I just don’t like taking it. Don’t pick on me, little brother. I’ve messaged Dad for you, haven’t I? We have a plan. He’s expecting us to call at one p.m. Sydney time, which is two a.m. here. Not ideal, I admit, but he has his lunch break then, so he should be able to take five minutes; and we don’t want an audience, obviously, especially if we’re using Mum’s computer downstairs.’
Honey no longer has a laptop of her own; her old one had an accident with a swimming pool in Australia, and because of all the cyberbullying stuff that happened while she was there, it was never replaced. Honey went off laptops and social networking overnight.
She doesn’t seem to be missing it; her bedroom is an Aladdin’s cave of artwork in progress. Self-portraits of a sad-eyed girl gaze out from a series of drawing boards and canvases: an image
painted from a shattered mirror, a face hidden behind layers of gauzy fabric, a portrait painted carefully on to an old jigsaw puzzle, with some pieces missing. They are amazing, and they show a very different side of Honey. Underneath the confident drama queen exterior, there is still a lot of hurt.
‘Maybe you’ll be famous, one day,’ I say. ‘My big sister, the next Van Gogh. Only with both ears intact, obviously.’
‘I’m going to try,’ she says. ‘Sometimes I think that art’s the only thing that matters – it takes all the broken bits of you and makes something good from them, y’know?’
I don’t know, but I can see that art is a kind of magic for Honey. And OK, I am not an expert, but even I can see that Honey is good, very good. In my imagination I fast-forward a few years, picture the two of us meeting in a cool cafe in London, Honey with an art portfolio under her arm, me – well, I cannot quite envisage me, but I’ll be there. I’ll be OK.
‘It’s so hot,’ Honey complains. ‘Sticky-hot. Paddy says there’ll be a storm.’
‘Nah, it’s a heatwave,’ I say. ‘Can’t possibly rain.’
I press my nose against the leaded glass of the window, looking up at the sky; for the first time since I’ve been at Tanglewood there are no stars, no crescent moon hanging in the velvet dark.
There’s a quiet tapping at the door, and Cherry’s head appears. ‘It’s almost two,’ she says. ‘Shall we go down?’
Honey rolls her eyes. ‘Cherry, it’s good of you to be so supportive of Cookie,’ she says. ‘But we don’t actually need you for the Skype call. We’ve got it covered.’
‘We’ll do it together,’ I say, and Honey rolls her eyes.
The three of us are on the landing when the door of the twins’ room opens and Skye appears. ‘What’s going on?’ she whispers. ‘We were just going down to grab a couple of drinks and we could hear talking.’
‘Nothing’s going on,’ Cherry says.
‘Obviously,’ I add. ‘No way.’
‘So where are you going?’ Summer wants to know, peering over Skye’s shoulder.
‘Nowhere!’ Honey says huffily. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake! Can’t anyone get a little peace and privacy in this house? We’re going to Skype Dad, and introduce him to Cookie.’
‘Ooh, can we come?’ Skye wants to know. ‘It should be a family thing, right? Please?’
‘Just don’t wake up Mum and Paddy,’ Honey sighs. ‘Cookie needs a bit of privacy here!’
Yet another door creaks open, and Coco peeps out, dressed in an outsize save-the-panda T-shirt. ‘I can’t sleep,’ she says. ‘It’s sooo hot and clammy. I feel like I’m being boiled alive! So why are we all hanging around on the landing in the middle of the night?’
‘You tell me,’ Honey says, exasperated. ‘Right, change of plan, Cookie. We’ll do a group Skype. C’mon, you lot – and be quiet!’
We creep down the stairs, hardly daring to breathe as we cross the lower landing where Paddy and Charlotte’s bedroom is. Once we’re downstairs, the sisters crowd into the shadowy kitchen and pour glasses of cold orange juice from the fridge, which cools everyone down a little. Fred the dog attaches himself to the gang, whimpering a little. ‘I actually think there is going to be thunder,’ Coco says, stroking his fur. ‘Fred always seems to know. He hates it. Bet you anything. Paddy said there’d be a storm.’
We trek through to Charlotte’s computer, which is on a desk cluttered with invoices, orders and Chocolate Box paperwork at the back of the conservatory. Honey sits down on the swivel chair just as the first flash of lightning crackles across the sky outside.
‘Wow,’ Summer says, stepping a little closer to her twin. ‘That’s impressive.’
Her words are drowned out by a crash of thunder so loud it seems to shake the windows. The rain starts to fall, lashing against the glass, streaming down in rivulets. It feels a bit like the end of the world, and Fred the dog presses his head against my hand, and I stroke him, trying to soothe his whimpers.
‘Perfect night for a Skype call,’ Honey says, logging into the computer and pulling up the Skype icon. ‘Never let anyone say it’s dull here at Tanglewood. Now look, back off, people, just for a minute. Let’s not swamp Dad, OK? We’re going to hit him with a major shock here; let’s go gently. And let’s hope he remembered we’re calling.’
We step back, out of view of the webcam, and Honey clicks on CALL. After a few rings, the call connects and a picture fills the screen: my so-called dad. He’s a good-looking, fair-haired man in a shirt and tie; his sleeves are rolled up, but he manages to look groomed, confident, comfortable. The chunky silver watch on his wrist probably cost more than Mum earns in a whole year. Or possibly two.
He doesn’t look like he could be my dad, not in a million years. He looks too polished, too slick, too charming. Disappointment floods through me, colder than the rain sliding down the windowpanes.
‘How’s my favourite girl?’ he says to Honey, and that is obviously the wrong thing to say, because Skye, Summer and Coco are mock-outraged, crowding in around their sister to argue with Greg Tanberry about which one is his favourite. I watch him charm his way out of the gaffe with easy skill, asking Honey how her painting is going, asking Summer about her dancing, Skye what decade is inspiring her fashion sense at the moment, Coco about her pony and her wildlife campaigns. He reels them in, keeps them smiling, mesmerized by the screen, and when Skye pulls Cherry into the circle he is lovely to her too, although she’s clearly the outsider; he doesn’t have much of a clue about what makes her tick.
‘I’m honoured to be sharing a middle-of-the-night thunderstorm with you,’ he says, as lightning flashes again and thunder follows fast on its tail. ‘Can’t say I’m missing that fabulous British weather, though! I think you’d better be getting back to bed now, girls; what would your mum say?’
‘We’re going,’ Honey promises. ‘In a minute. But the reason we called – look, Dad, this is kind of massive. I can’t tell you how we found out – what happened – it’s complicated. But the thing is, we found out that we have a half-brother, and we’ve tracked him down, and – well, he’s here.’
Watching from the sidelines, I see Greg Tanberry’s face struggle to stay bright and cheerful; behind the hearty smile I notice irritation, anger, fear.
‘What half-brother?’ he asks, but there’s a kind of defeat in his voice. He knows there is no escape.
Honey gets up from the swivel chair and pulls me forward, sits me down. I see my face appear in the small side window, watch Greg Tanberry’s face as it registers shock, surprise and, finally, a kind of fascination.
‘Go on!’ Honey says. ‘Talk to him, Cookie!’
My mouth feels dry as dust and my heart hammers so hard it feels loud as the thunderclaps.
‘Dad?’ I say a little shakily. ‘I’m Jake. Jake Cooke.’
20
I half expect him to yell and rage and cut the call dead. I half believe he will deny all knowledge of me, tell me I’m a liar, tell me I’m nobody at all, but that doesn’t happen.
‘Jake?’ he asks gently. ‘Is it really you?’
I find that I cannot speak, that my voice is full of hurt and love and loss, and there is no room left for words. Instead I nod and smile and try very hard not to cry, and although it seems ridiculous I stretch out my hand and touch the computer screen. I think if I could touch him, touch this man who is my dad but has never been a dad to me, then I could make him understand everything that’s in my heart, make him understand how much I have missed him. Has he missed me?
‘I emailed,’ I say, my voice wobbly. ‘You didn’t answer.’
‘I thought it was some kind of scam,’ he says. ‘I didn’t realize.’
‘It wasn’t a scam,’ I tell him. ‘It was just me. I came here to find you – to find my sisters. I didn’t know that they existed, but I knew about you; I think I’ve been looking for you for a long time.’
I think I have, although I didn’t really know it. In my hopes, in my dre
ams, in my saddest moments – those were the times I needed a dad, an anchor. And now, with life turning upside down all around me, I need him more than ever.
‘I’m in trouble,’ I say. ‘I ran away to find you, to ask for help; there was an accident, and it was my fault, and we’re losing the flat because of it. Everything’s gone wrong. I need some money. I mean, I can pay it back some day, maybe, but I need it fast and I thought that you could help me, because you’re my dad and I know you’d want to help me, if you could. I don’t know the exact amount, but maybe eight or nine hundred quid should do it, and it would totally save our lives.’
Dad’s face goes very still. I can see him closing down, like pulling down the shutters on a shop, locking the door.
‘You’re asking me for money?’ he says, incredulous. ‘Seriously? Fourteen years and you track me down from the other side of the world to ask me for money? Is this a joke?’
‘It’s not a joke!’ I protest. ‘Mum’s lost her job and the landlord threatened to put us out on the street, and it’s all my fault.’
Greg Tanberry starts to laugh. ‘You know what, Jake Cooke?’ he says. ‘You’re quite something. You are just like your mother. That was all Alison wanted too – money. Money to look after the baby, money for rent, money for clothes, money for food; she thought she’d found a meal ticket for life. She trapped me, set me up because she thought she’d have a cushy life, with some idiot on hand to pay all the bills. She was a gold-digger, Jake. Well, I guess the apple never falls far from the tree.’
A wave of anger rushes through me, so powerful it just about lifts me off my feet.
‘Shut up!’ I yell, and my fist thumps down on the table and scatters papers everywhere. ‘You’re a liar! A liar!’
I can’t see the screen any more because my eyes are blinded by tears, but I know I need to get away. I’m on my feet, pushing past my half-sisters, shoving open the French windows and stepping into the storm.
‘Cookie!’ Honey is yelling. ‘Hang on, just ignore him – he’s an idiot.’
Fortune Cookie Page 11
