Secrets

by Jacqueline Wilson

  I humoured her. ‘What’s Parkfield?’

  ‘It’s this estate. Not council, it’s private, huge, and you should see the houses. They’re enormous with masses of bedrooms and bathrooms. Mum says some have got swimming pools in the basements; imagine! That’s where I’m going to live when I’m grown up, Treasure.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’

  ‘Well, I could, you know, if I make it in show biz. All these actors and singers and dancers live up Parkfield. That actress from EastEnders, she lives there now. There was a whole feature about her in OK magazine, Mum showed me. I’m going to get in OK one day. Maybe for my wedding, eh, and I’ll wear white, of course, and me and my husband will sit on thrones and tell you what, Treasure, you could be my bridesmaid.’

  I leant my forehead against the cold glass, letting her prattle on while the fireworks flashed.

  ‘What about you, Treasure? What sort of wedding are you going to have? Shall I be your bridesmaid?’

  ‘I’m not ever, ever, ever going to get married,’ I said.

  ‘Why not?’ Patsy misunderstood. ‘You’ll maybe grow up to be prettier. And you could wear contact lenses.’

  ‘I don’t want to get married. I don’t want a stupid scary mean old husband, thanks.’

  Patsy thought about it. ‘You’ll need a career then,’ she said. ‘What do you want to be, eh?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I’ve known I want to be a dancer – or an actress – or a singer – since I was three,’ Patsy said proudly. She waited. ‘Hey, I didn’t mean it to sound like I was showing off. I know, Treasure, you can be some big posh business lady who earns a fortune. Mum says you’re dead brainy, much brainier than me. OK? Then you could live in Parkfield too. We could have adjoining houses, you and me.’

  Yeah, sure. Dream on, Patsy. You might get to live in this posh Parkfield. I haven’t got a chance.

  Four

  India

  DEAR KITTY

  I don’t think I like this year one bit. It’s no better than the last year. It’s WORSE.

  I’ve broken my resolutions already. In fact I broke the first resolution within ten minutes. I was supposed to go on a diet: Sensible Eating for Sparky Kids. It’s a book. One of my mum’s friends wrote it. She’s got this son, Ben, and he’s fat too. He gets called Big Ben at school.

  Mum thought Ben and I might bond because of this and so she invited them to our New Year’s party.

  ‘I want you to be a good little hostess and keep a special eye on Ben,’ said Mum.

  ‘Oh, Mum, that’s so mean. I don’t want to get stuck with any boy. Especially Ben,’ I wailed.

  I make out I can’t stand boys. If I’m honest I suppose this is because they mostly can’t stand me. Anne Frank and I are poles apart on this one. She was ever so popular and had heaps of boyfriends. I haven’t ever had any.

  Ben and I have never really hit it off. He used to push me off my toddler trike when we were little and he once tore the head off my Barbie doll, deliberately. I hadn’t seen him for a year or two and wondered if he might have improved. Mum said he was fatter than ever and utterly refusing to go on his mum’s diet. I decided we might have something in common after all.

  Ben certainly was wonderfully enormous, stuffed into a big denim shirt and combat trousers. They were supposed to look baggy but they were very close fitting on Ben. I did my best to be a Good Hostess. I offered him a drink and several snacks and tried to make small talk. The talk got smaller and smaller, threatening to dwindle into silence. I asked him what subjects he liked most at school. And then wanted to know his favourite television programmes. And what type of mobile phone he had.

  ‘Look, is this some dumb questionnaire?’ he said.

  ‘No, I was just trying to make conversation,’ I said, mortified.

  ‘You don’t have to hang around me, India.’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ I mumbled.

  ‘Yes, but I do,’ he said – and he went off and started chatting to Phoebe.

  Phoebe is my mum’s favourite model. She is a year younger than me but she acts like she’s ages older. She has a mass of wonderful soft black curls, big, big, big eyes with long lashes, and she’s tiny. She is so beautiful it makes me ache to look at her. Even Mum softens when she speaks to Phoebe. Her voice goes all gooey and sickeningly sweet.

  Thank goodness Dad doesn’t go a bundle on Phoebe.

  ‘She looks like Bambi with a wig on,’ he whispered to me the first time we met her. I got the giggles so badly I snorted and stuff came out my nose.

  I looked for Dad at the party but he didn’t seem to want me hanging round him either. He had a bottle of whisky in one hand and Wanda’s au pair friend, Suzi, in the other. Wanda herself had e-mailed her family in Australia and then retreated to her room, crying. I suppose she was homesick. I wasn’t allowed to go to my room. I had to stand there with a stupid smile on my face, passing round the party snacks.

  I told people again and again and again that my name is India and yes I am Moya’s daughter and I am getting a big girl now. It got so bad I wanted to scream and throw the canapés at them. I snacked a lot myself. Caviar looks like baby blackberries so I expected it to taste sweet. I took a big bite and wrinkled my face in disgust. Mum said it’s an acquired taste. I don’t think I’ll ever acquire a taste for rotting fish. Mum got a black bead of caviar stuck between her front teeth. I didn’t tell her.

  At twelve o’clock everyone went mad and started kissing. Ben kissed Phoebe. He didn’t kiss me. Dad kissed me and some of Mum’s friends kissed me and one silly man picked me up and whirled me round and round and then got very red in the face and had to sit down. Mum frowned at me as if it was my fault. Mum did her fair share of kissing too. The black bit of caviar had gone. Some sad person had it stuck to their tongue, yuck yuck.

  I looked closely at all the smiling men, trying to spot which one.

  ‘Don’t peer like that, India,’ Mum hissed. Then there was a loud swoop and bang and Mum clapped her hands like a little girl.

  ‘Firework time!’ she cried. ‘Goodie goodie!’

  She ushered everyone into the garden to watch. She’d hired a firework man to do a special display. We had to stand behind the little picket fence for safety, so we were uncomfortably huddled together. I saw Dad making the most of this with Suzi. I wished she hadn’t come to the party. I wanted Dad to myself. Mum was bobbing about in the distance. I edged further and further away from her. I knew it would annoy her if she saw me standing all by myself.

  I peered up at all the rockets and each time one burst into stars I made a wish.

  I wish I had a real best friend!

  I wished it ten times over and then I crept back inside the house, into the kitchen. The left-over party canapés were congealing on their silver trays.

  ‘Blow Sensible Eating. I’m not a Sparky Kid,’ I muttered. I ate every single honey-glazed sausage and asparagus tip and quail’s egg and goat’s cheese tartlet and Thai chicken stick and even the caviar canapés, and then I went to the fridge and got a big carton of Loseley vanilla-and-ginger ice-cream and ate the lot. Then I went up to bed.

  I wasn’t sick. I felt sick – and I got up in the night to go to the bathroom just in case. The party seemed to have finished because it was quiet downstairs. It was very noisy in Mum and Dad’s bedroom. They seemed to be having a serious quarrel about Suzi.

  I felt so lonely I wondered about going into Wanda’s room. If she was still crying we could maybe comfort each other. But when I peeped round her door I saw she was fast asleep, her hair inky-black against her pillow, her long feet sticking straight out the end of her duvet. I decided it would be mean to wake her so I trailed back to my own bed and put the light on and started reading Anne Frank’s diary all over again to take my mind off my queasy stomach.

  The first part made me feel sadder than ever because Anne had so many friends when she was at school, before she had to go into hiding.

  Maybe we’re not soulmates aft
er all.

  I absolutely have to get a proper best friend at school this year. I shall try harder with Maria. Maybe she’ll let me be her second-best friend. She might even get fed up with Alice and want to go around with me.

  * * *

  I can’t believe I wrote that. I HATE Maria now.

  I tried very, very hard the first day back at school. I sit over the other side of the classroom from Maria and Alice but I hovered by their desks before lessons and after lessons. I went along to the girls’ cloakrooms when they did and stood in the lunch queue with them, listening all the time. Whenever Maria said anything – for example:

  I got a new mobile phone for Christmas.

  I’m seriously thinking of becoming a vegetarian.

  Wasn’t Buffy good last night?

  I’d say:

  I’m going to ask for a mobile for my birthday. I’ll buy it all these little covers so it’s like it’s my doll and I can dress it up. Wouldn’t it be weird if your mobile developed its own personality and only let you chat to the people it really liked? It would tell everyone else to get lost in this funny little electronic voice.

  I’m thinking about being a vegetarian too. I especially can’t stand the idea of eating lamb, can you, as they look so sweet – but it’s a bit unfair to think it’s OK to eat really hideous animals like eels – not that anyone in their right mind would want to. And they eat snakes somewhere, don’t they? Imagine!

  Buffy is my all-time favourite programme. Do you think there really are vampires? Wouldn’t it be great to be the chosen one? Mind you, it would be pretty exciting to be a vampire too.

  I thought my replies were a lot more interesting than Alice’s, which were:

  You are lucky.

  Me too.

  Yeah.

  But somehow Maria didn’t seem to think so. She started off the day nodding and smiling but by the time we were packing our bags ready to go home she was shaking her head and frowning all over her face. She didn’t say anything and when I said goodbye she said goodbye back. Alice said goodbye too – but then she added ‘and good riddance!’ the moment I’d turned my back. Maria went, ‘Alice!’ like that – but she burst out laughing. They both did.

  I walked across the playground with my head held high, pretending not to have heard them. I shan’t go near them tomorrow. I’ve never been that keen on Alice but I thought Maria might be different.

  I’m the one who’s different.

  I wish everyone didn’t think I’m weird.

  Wanda was waiting for me, leaning against the railings and inspecting her nose in her pocket mirror. She hasn’t put on an ounce of weight with all the chocolates she eats but she hasn’t half got spotty.

  Maria and Alice brushed past us, giggling like anything.

  ‘Why are you blushing, India?’ said Wanda.

  ‘I’m not!’ I said, stupidly.

  Wanda held her mirror up. I saw a flash of Boiled Lobster Girl.

  ‘I’ve been running. I’m hot,’ I said, though it was so cold I was huddled right up inside my duffel coat. It’s part of the school uniform. Unlike every other girl in our school I actually like the old-fashioned uniform. Especially the duffel coat. Dad always calls me his little Paddington Bear when I wear it.

  Well, he did. He doesn’t call me anything now. He doesn’t seem to notice me most of the time. When he does I just seem to get on his nerves.

  He came across me sitting on the stairs reading Anne Frank’s diary. He tripped over me, actually. He asked if he’d hurt me and I shook my head, although he did a bit. I think I’ve got a bruise on my bottom where his foot accidentally kicked me. I can’t be sure though because I never have a proper look at my bottom. It’s too depressing.

  ‘So why are you looking so miserable then?’ Dad said, peering down at me.

  I sighed deeply, wondering where to start. I hoped Dad would sit down beside me but he stayed looming over my head. I began to tell him about Maria and Alice but after a sentence or two he started fidgeting.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll all make friends again soon. Why don’t you ask them both round to play?’ said Dad, starting to go downstairs.

  ‘We don’t play,’ I said, offended. ‘And I haven’t ever been friends with Maria, that’s the point. I haven’t got a proper friend at my horrible old school.’

  ‘Well, maybe you’ll be going to a new school soon,’ said Dad.

  I peered at him, trying to see his face in the gloom of the stairwell. He didn’t sound as if he was joking.

  What did he mean, a new school? I suddenly got tremendously worried. Maybe Dad and Mum were planning to send me to boarding school? Perhaps they’d got sick of me being in the way?

  Miranda goes to boarding school now. She wanted to go. She loves the Harry Potter books and thought the whole boarding school idea would be wonderful – but she positively hated it at first. She wept buckets – tanks – a whole swimming pool. The letter she wrote to me was all tear-stained and smudgy. OK, she says it’s not so bad now. In fact last time she wrote to me she said it was great. She hasn’t actually written for ages now. I’ve written three times in a row.

  I would hate to go to boarding school because I’m sure I wouldn’t fit in. You have to play team games and I’d never get picked. The teachers would doubtless make squashing remarks and all the girls would gang up on me.

  But if I went to Miranda’s boarding school she’d look out for me. She’s got a new best friend now, I know, but maybe I could be her old best friend? Perhaps boarding school wouldn’t be quite so bad?

  ‘Can I go to Miranda’s boarding school, Dad?’ I asked as he got to the bottom of the stairs.

  He stopped and stared up at me.

  ‘What?’ He seemed to have forgotten what we were talking about. He often does that nowadays.

  ‘Can I go to Miranda’s boarding school?’ I repeated. My voice sounded funny. I get a little bit scared talking to Dad now even though he’s my favourite person in all the world. It’s because he can suddenly get so grumpy, growling at me like he hates me.

  He growled this time.

  ‘For God’s sake!’ he exploded. He didn’t quite say that. He said something much worse. ‘Do you think I’m made of money? Do you know how much that flipping boarding school costs per term?’ He didn’t say ‘flipping’ either. ‘If you want to go to that school then there’s no point asking me. Ask your mother.’

  ‘I don’t want to, Dad, not really. It was just you said I might be going to a new school—’ I was getting all worked up, tears spilling down my cheeks.

  Dad used to cuddle me when I cried and mop me with his big hanky and call me his little Weepy Winnie. But now he just sighed irritably.

  ‘Don’t turn on the waterworks, India. You’re not a baby. Forget the school. You’ll probably be fine. Oh, do stop it. I’m the one who should be blooming crying.’ Or words to that effect.

  Dad stalked off, leaving me snivelling on the stairs.

  I don’t know what he’s on about. I hate the way he’s started to be so horrid to me. Mum’s always been horrid, even though she’s all smiley-smiley sweet talk.

  I decided to show them both. I went upstairs with this diary – right upstairs, to the ladder leading to the attic. I climbed up the ladder quick, opened the trapdoor, felt around for the light switch, and then shut the trapdoor after me.

  It was like my own Anne Frank secret annexe.

  Well, not exactly. It was just our attic with the water tank and heaps of clothes and old furniture and trunks and boxes of books. I’d been up there a couple of times with Dad when we first moved here. Dad said he might turn it into a special playroom for me, but he’s never got round to it. Mum uses it now to store her old Moya stock.

  I flicked through the silly skimpy little tops and trousers, holding them up and pulling faces. I scrumpled the tiniest, tightest dress into a little ball and then kicked it into the corner of the loft. I stuffed several others at the back of an old chair to make a cushion and t
hen I sat down heartily, bouncing up and down for a bit. Then I curled my legs up and wrote my diary.

  I wrote and wrote and wrote.

  Then I listened.

  I was waiting. Waiting for Wanda to start calling for me. Then Mum. Then Dad.

  If my rumbling tummy was anything to go by it was way past supper time. I wished I’d thought to bring some kind of provisions with me. I thought of the Mars Bars hidden under my pillow and my mouth watered so much I nearly dribbled.

  I wrote some more.

  I waited.

  I wondered if I simply couldn’t hear the outcry downstairs. I lay down and stuck my ear to the crack of the trapdoor. I could just make out a very distant buzz of television and a sudden small swoosh of a tap in the kitchen. Why were they placidly watching television and making coffee? Why weren’t they running all over the house calling for me?

  Eventually I heard the slap-shuffle, slap-shuffle of Wanda’s silly teddy-bear slippers. She was obviously starting to search for me.

  No, she wasn’t. She went into the bathroom and ran a bath. I had been missing for hours and hours and hours. I could have been butchered by a burglar, raped by a robber, abducted by aliens . . . Wanda obviously didn’t give a fig. I’d totally disappeared but she wasn’t going to let it spoil her long, hot soak in the bath.

  What about Mum and Dad? I know I’m a huge disappointment to my Mum – huge being the operative word – but Dad’s always said I’m his special girl, the icing on his cake, the jam in his doughnut, the cream in his éclair. The cakes have gone stale now. Dad didn’t notice I’d gone missing. No-one did.

  When I was absolutely faint with hunger I opened up the trapdoor and clambered down the stairs. I stood there on the landing, feeling as if I’d returned from another dimension. I found Wanda in her room, still very pink from her long bath, her hair hanging like seaweed. She was eating a Mars bar, plugged into her Walkman. She jumped when she saw me.

  ‘Why aren’t you looking all over for me?’ I demanded.