by Melody James
Other books in the Signs of Love series:
Love Match
First published in Great Britain in 2012 by Simon and Schuster UK Ltd
A CBS COMPANY
Copyright © HotHouse Fiction Limited 2012
This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.
No reproduction without permission.
All rights reserved.
The right of Melody James to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
Simon & Schuster UK Ltd
1st Floor, 222 Gray’s Inn Road
London
WC1X 8HB
Simon & Schuster Australia, Sydney
Simon & Schuster India, New Delhi
A CIP catalogue record for this book
is available from the British Library.
PB ISBN 978-0-85707-324-2
eBook ISBN 978-0-85707-325-9
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY
www.simonandschuster.co.uk
www.simonandschuster.com.au
www.signs-of-love.co.uk
With thanks to Kate Cary
Contents
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21
‘This is the worst dilemma ever!’ Treacle drops her book bag on to my bedroom floor and starts pacing up and down. ‘Do I go fashionista or frump?’
I flip on the light to banish the after-school gloom. ‘Just wear something comfortable.’ I start emptying homework from bag to bed, acting casual. Treacle has no idea that I have a surprise for her hidden in my wardrobe. I tighten my lips to stop a smile escaping.
‘Comfortable?’ Treacle winds a strand of her glossy black hair round a frantic finger. ‘For me? Or Jeff? Or them?’
‘Them’ are Jeff’s parents. Treacle’s been invited to their house for tea. It will be her first meeting with Jeff’s ancestors and she’s not nervous, she’s cup-final-at-Wembley terrified.
‘You must have something suitable,’ I reason calmly.
Treacle stops mid-pace. ‘How do I know what’s suitable?’ she squawks. ‘I’ve never met them! Their idea of suitable might be corsets and a tiara.’
‘Have you asked Jeff?’
Treacle’s fast-breathing. ‘He just says “be yourself”.’ She starts fanning her eyes with hummingbird hands. She’s welling up. ‘But I have no idea who “myself” is!’
‘You’re Treacle!’ I throw my arms round her. In the month since she started dating Jeff, my best friend has embraced her inner girl like a jackpot winner embracing a quiz show host. She’s changed from hardcore footballer to Disney princess – but she still carries a pair of muddy football boots in her backpack and she’s only a changing room away from her soccer jersey and a pair of stinking sports socks. I squeeze her harder. ‘And that means you’re fabulous and Jeff is lucky to have you as a girlfriend.’
‘Really?’ She looks at me with hopeful puppy-dog eyes.
‘Really.’ I nod decisively and head for my wardrobe. The smile’s back on my lips, pushing the corners of my mouth wide as I reach through the crush of clothes and drag out a hanger.
A neat, tweed suit hangs from it like knitted moss. Pale green, knee-length, gold buttons, square jacket. It is the perfect meet-the-parents ensemble. I had to fight off a gaggle of pension-book fashionistas to grab this outfit in Oxfam.
‘Ta-da!’ I hold it up for Treacle to admire. ‘As soon as I saw it in the charity shop, I thought of your visit with Jeff’s old folk!’
Treacle’s mouth is open. She must be getting the full granny-aroma that’s wafting from the tweed.
‘Don’t worry,’ I reassure her. ‘The lady behind the counter said it’s been dry-cleaned and that a splash of perfume and fresh air will blow away the smell.’
‘I-I don’t know what to say,’ Treacle stammers.
‘Try it on.’ I’m picking up a vibe that tells me Treacle’s not that impressed by my carefully chosen outfit, but that’s OK. We’re trying to dress her for parents, not a rave.
Gingerly, Treacle takes the suit and lays it on my bed. As she peels off her school jumper and slips into the jacket, I duck out on to the landing and call down the stairs. ‘Any crisps, Mum?’
Mum’s chatting with my brother Ben in the kitchen. I can hear them laughing. Ben has cystic fibrosis and last month a dark cloud almost crushed our family when he was admitted to hospital fighting for every breath. He’s OK now, thank goodness, and it’s wall to wall sunshine most days.
‘Crisps?’ Mum echoes up the stairs. ‘Hold on.’
A minute later, Ben appears at the foot of the stairs with a tray loaded with crisps, sandwiches and two glasses of milk.
I grin at him as he carries them carefully upstairs. Ben’s seven years old and still pleased when he gets the chance to show how grown up and responsible he can be.
‘Thanks, Ben.’ I take the tray from him when he gets to the top. ‘I appreciate it.’ I plant a sloppy kiss on his head.
He shakes me off and gallops downstairs. I love it when he seems like a totally normal brother – like he’s not actually ill and doesn’t need heaps of physiotherapy to keep his lungs gunk-free, or medicine to fight off the constant threat of infection.
‘Thanks, Mum!’ I yell over the banister and barge back into the bedroom, the tray heavy in my hands.
Treacle’s standing, neat as a pin in the pale green suit. ‘The plan is to meet Jeff’s mum,’ she says accusingly, ‘not be her!’
She does look mumsy; like a mini-politician. If I pinned a rosette to the sharp-cut collar, she’d probably win the next local election.
I slide the tray on to my desk. ‘It’s not bad,’ I lie. ‘OK, so it swallows your shape a bit—’
‘Swallows my shape a bit?’ Treacle’s eyes pop. ‘My waist has disappeared and I have armpit lumps. Who has armpit lumps? And the colour – the colour . . .’ She runs out of words.
I circle her. ‘It is kind of more cabbagey than I thought.’ I don’t tell her the colour of the tweed is highlighting every greenish tone in her smooth olive skin.
‘I look like a toad!’ Treacle stares in dismay at the mirror.
‘But a well-brought-up, respectable toad,’ I encourage.
Treacle cracks a smile.
‘The sort of toad that parents would approve of,’ I press.
‘It is smart,’ she concedes. ‘I bet Georgina Robyn-Earle dresses like this on the weekends.’
G R-E is a Year Twelve. She’s got her own pony and skis every Easter in the Pyrenees.
‘Mrs Simpson.’ Treacle fixes me with a mischievous look as she pretends I’m Jeff’s mum. ‘I’ve brought you some jam.’ As she holds out an imaginary jar for me to take, she slips into a plummy lisp. ‘Mummy’s got so many gooseberries this year she doesn’t know what to do with them.’
I take the invisible jam, joining in the game. ‘Oh, Treacle, dear. How kind. It’s so lovely to meet you. When Jeff said he was bringing home his girlfriend, I was frightened you’d be one of those ravers you see so much of on the television.’
Treacle widens her eyes. ‘Oh, gosh no. I’ve never raved in my life. Nor do I intend to.’
‘You’re not one of those festival types?’ I ask suspiciously. ‘You don’t spend the summer in a tent with your hair in dreadlocks, do you?’
‘Sometimes we take a picnic to the gymkhana.’ Treacle’s holding back a giggle. I can see it in her eyes. ‘There’s nothing better than a potted crab sandwich in the back of the Land Rover.’ She lifts a wilting hand and crosses to the bed on the balls of her feet, like Cinderella tiptoeing in glass slippers. I swallow back a squawk of laughter as she goes on. ‘Last year at Ascot, Daddy forgot the icebox and Mummy had to drink warm gin from a teacup.’
‘Watch out, dear!’ As Treacle lowers herself daintily on to the bed, I dive and grab a pillow from behind her. ‘You’ll squash the Chihuahua.’ I cradle the pillow-pooch in my arms. ‘Dear little Bubbles. He’s still recovering from when Jeff mistook him for a football and booted him over the fence.’ I stroke the pillow lovingly, fighting back giggles. ‘I think Jeff was practising goal kicks because poor Bubbles flew over three gardens before he landed in the Robinson’s swimming pool.’
‘Noooo!’ Treacle explodes with laughter and slides off the bed with a thump. She clutches her sides helplessly. ‘Stop!’
‘Poor Bubby!’ Hooting, I collapse beside her, the image of a low-flying Chihuahua fixed in my head.
As the giggles slowly ease, an idea sparks in my brain. ‘Come on!’ I sit up and tug her arm. ‘Let’s try it properly.’
‘What?’ Treacle looks puzzled. ‘Booting a chihuahua?’
‘No, idiot! Role-play! It’ll give you chance to practise. No jokes this time. I’ll pretend to be Jeff’s mum.’
Treacle gives a nervous frown.
‘Don’t worry,’ I reassure her. ‘I’ll be gentle.’ I scramble to my feet and straighten my skirt. ‘Treacle dear.’ I hold out a hand. ‘How lovely to meet you. Jeff’s talked about nothing else these past few weeks.’
‘Really?’ Treacle gets to her feet and tentatively takes my hand.
I shake it heartily ‘Absolutely! It’s been “Treacle this, Treacle that” for weeks. Do you mind me calling you Treacle or would you rather I called you Tracy?’
‘Um . . . er . . .’ Treacle’s eyes cloud with confusion.
‘Tell her Treacle’s fine,’ I hiss, dropping out of character for a second.
‘T-Treacle’s fine,’ she stammers.
‘Good. Lovely. You can call me Mary.’
Treacle blinks. ‘Is that her name?’
‘It is now,’ I answer briskly. ‘Come and sit down.’ I pat the bed and wait till Treacle takes a seat. Then I head for the tray. ‘Would you like some milk, Treacle?’ I lift a glass from the tray and offer it to her.
‘I’m not really thirsty,’ Treacle answers.
‘Sandwich?’
Treacle shakes her head. ‘Not hungry.’
‘Really? A growing girl like you?’ I grab a sandwich for myself and plump down next to Treacle on the bed. ‘You’re not one of those funny eaters, are you?’
Treacle shakes her head.
‘Vegetarian?’ I ask. ‘We’ve a friend with a daughter who’s just turned vegetarian. Poor things. They have to cook bean burgers every night. It’s all she’ll eat.’ I take another bite of sandwich. Cheese and mustard. My favourite. ‘Where do you live?’
‘Mulberry Crescent.’
‘Really?’ I swallow. ‘Which end? Crook Street or Tottington Avenue?’
Treacle rubs the side of her nose. ‘Kind of in the middle.’
‘Hmm.’ I frown as I cram in the last of the sandwich. ‘Are you sure you’re not hungry? They’re very good.’
‘No thank you Mrs Simps—’ Treacle corrects herself. ‘Mary. I ate before I came out.’
‘Really?’ I frown. Time to increase the pressure. ‘Didn’t Jeff tell you we’d be having dinner?’
Treacle looks flustered. ‘Well, yes.’
‘It seems a little thoughtless to eat beforehand.’
‘I-I-er-I . . .’
While Treacle fishes for a reply, I push on. I’m really living the part now. Being a middle-aged bossy-boots is fun. ‘Never mind. We can always donate what you don’t need to the soup kitchen. I hear they’re always in need.’
Treacle’s twitching like a flustered terrier beside me. ‘When I said I’d eaten, it was only a packet of crisps on the bus, I’m sure I’ll be hungry in a minute. I’m just a bit nervous, that’s all.’
‘Nervous, dear?’ I turn a spectacularly amazed look on her. ‘Of meeting us? Did Jeff tell you we’re monsters or something?’
‘No, no! Jeff didn’t say anything.’
‘Because if he did, I’d feel very disappointed in him.’
‘Really—’ Treacle balls her fists ‘—he didn’t say anything.’ I feel her fluster hardening into irritation, but I’m not turning down the heat. I want her to be prepared for anything.
‘He didn’t mention us at all?’ I flash her a wounded look and then move on swiftly. ‘So you play football?’
‘Yes, for the school.’
‘Jeff plays for the county.’
‘I’m going to try out for the county team,’ Treacle says quickly.
‘That’s nice, dear. But it’s a lot of time and energy to devote to something that’s not really going to take you anywhere.’ As Treacle’s eyes spark with indignation, I carry on. ‘It’s not like a girl could ever go on to play football professionally.’ I know Treacle’s got her whole footballing career mapped out, but Jeff’s mum won’t. ‘Surely you’d be better off spending the time on school-work. Then you’ll be able to get a nice little job as a secretary or something.’
‘Secretary or something?’ The spark in Treacle’s eyes ignites into fury. ‘This is the twenty-first century Mrs—Mary! Women become lawyers and surgeons and CEOs!’
‘I’m pleased to hear you’re aiming high but, once you marry and settle down, you’ll want to put your family first, surely?’
Treacle leaps to her feet. ‘Oh! My! God!’ She’s outraged. ‘You want someone to cook and clean for your son and provide you with grandchildren? It’s like one of those old books we read at school! There’s no way I’m going to end up as a housewife.’
I gaze at her innocently. ‘It’s been a good enough career for me.’
‘Really?’ Treacle puts her hands on her hips. ‘Well it’s not good enough for me! You should be locked up somewhere in the nineteenth century where you belong! If you’re looking for a nice little stay-at-home wife for your precious son, you’d better look somewhere else, because it’s not going to be me, you stupid old bag!’
Her face is beetroot-red, her eyes wild. She looks so funny!
‘Whoa! Treacle!’ I laugh.
Treacle claps her hands over her mouth in horror. ‘I just called Jeff’s mum a stupid old bag!’
‘Maybe save that for your second meeting,’ I suggest.
‘Why did you have to push me like that?’ Treacle’s puffing like an angry bull. ‘Mrs Simpson’s not going to be grilling me about marriage.’
I smile up at her sweetly. ‘I just wanted to make sure you were prepared for anything.’
‘Gemma!’ Treacle grabs the pillow-pooch and starts bashing me furiously.
I burrow for cover under the duvet, laughing. ‘Don’t hurt poor Bubbles!’
‘You’re no help!’ she yelps, continuing to batter me with the ex-Chihuahua.
When the whacking stops, I peep out. ‘Sorry, Treacle.’
She’s pacing again. ‘I’m hopeless. I’m going to mess it up, I know I will!’
‘No you won’t.’ I leap up. ‘You’ll be great, and Mrs Simpson will be nice, and you’ll get on really well.’ I’m keeping pace with her, backward and forward, hopping over the clothes and books littering my floor.
Treacle sinks on to the bed and drops her head into her hands. ‘Why do I have to meet Jeff’s parents at all?’
‘I guess
he’s planning to date you for a while,’ I say with a smile.
Treacle groans and flops back on to the crumpled duvet. ‘Yeah well, he might change his mind after I’ve told his mother she’s a stupid old bag.’
‘You won’t.’ I plop down beside her and pass her a sandwich. ‘He won’t. It’ll be fine.’
Treacle sits up and takes a bite, staring despairingly into space as she chews. ‘Perhaps Jessica Jupiter can write something in Jeff’s horoscope this week asking him to be sympathetic and understanding if a loved one happens to say something dumb.’
‘Good idea,’ I agree. ‘Just in case.’ Jessica Jupiter’s my alter-ego – I write horoscopes for the school webzine under her name. It’s the silliest job on the webzine and far less cool than Will Bold’s job as feature writer, or Jeff’s role as sports writer. Even boring Barbara Tweed has a better job than me, with her brainless lifestyle features. (Most earth-shattering articles to date: Twenty Ways to Get the Most from Your School Locker, Desk Etiquette: Polite Behaviour in the Classroom and Top Tips to Spice Up Your School Stationery.) At least no one apart from Treacle knows I’m Jessica Jupiter. I’d die of embarrassment. I joined the webzine team as the first step on the ladder of my career in journalism. It was going to be the line on my CV that landed me my first intern job on the local paper; the local paper was going to lead to a national paper, and within five years I was going to be writing my own column and winning international awards. My head fills with my favourite fantasy – a wide stage stretching around me, an audience glittering in the darkness as I stand at the podium, accepting the award for Journalist of the Year.
Treacle nudges me and passes me a glass of milk. ‘Thank goodness we’ve got Jessica on our side.’ She takes a creamy sip from her glass, then licks away her milk moustache. ‘If it wasn’t for her, Jeff might never have noticed my number ten shirt.’
‘Jessica’ had written in Jeff’s horoscope that the number ten would change his life. When he spotted it on Treacle’s football jersey after she’d scored the winning goal at the Year Nine girls’ football cup final, he asked her out. It was a major result for Jessica, and I was delighted to help my best friend land the boy of her dreams.
