I glance over my shoulder. It’s dark out. How long have I been here? It feels like ten minutes.
‘But we’re midway through a game,’ Noah says, pointing at the chessboard.
‘You can finish it another day.’
‘Can Ro stay and eat with us?’
‘I didn’t order enough pizzas.’
‘She can share mine.’
‘Not tonight, Noah.’
‘But Dad—’
‘I said, not tonight.’
‘Told you he was a dick,’ Noah says once Mr Hornby has gone.
‘That’s just parents for you, I reckon.’
He shoots me a grateful smile. ‘What shall we do about the game?’ he asks.
‘Are you free on Friday afternoon?’ I ask, mentally crossing my fingers. ‘Maybe we could finish it then.’
‘It’s my dad’s birthday so we’re doing stuff for that all day,’ Noah says, screwing up his face. ‘Saturday?’
‘I’ll be at work in the morning but any time after one works.’
‘Great,’ Noah says. ‘I’ll leave the board set up. Unless you want to hang out at yours instead?’
‘Here is good,’ I say quickly.
I’m relieved when Noah doesn’t push me on it.
‘Noah! It’s getting cold!’ Mr Hornby’s voice sails up the stairs.
‘I should go,’ I say.
Noah walks me to the door. ‘Good luck tomorrow,’ he says. ‘If you’re anywhere near as good as your mum, you’ll smash it.’
‘Thanks,’ I reply.
‘Saturday at one then?’ he adds.
‘Saturday at one,’ I confirm, butterflies flapping in my chest and belly.
I sit down on my bed and scroll through the contacts on my phone in search for an adult to take Jodie’s place.
Dad and Melanie are in France.
Eric has four kids and a full-time job.
Gran and Grandad are in Spain.
Tanvi and her family are at Center Parcs.
Noah and his dad have plans.
And I don’t have any way of contacting Mr Milford.
Which leaves just one person.
The very last person I want to ask.
Bonnie.
I head downstairs and push open the living-room door. Bonnie is watching Home and Away. She’s smoking. I pretend not to notice. Now isn’t the time to start an argument.
‘Everything OK?’ she asks, glancing up at me.
I haven’t seen her much this week.
‘I need to ask you something,’ I say.
‘OK,’ she says, turning down the volume slightly.
‘Do you remember that letter you brought up to my room a few weeks ago?’
‘Vaguely,’ Bonnie says.
‘The thing is, that letter was about a recall audition. For a choir.’
‘A choir?’ Bonnie says, suddenly alert. Her surprise seems genuine. Perhaps she didn’t register the logo on the original letter after all.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘The National Youth Choir of Great Britain.’
‘Never heard of it,’ Bonnie says, her dismissive tone suggesting it therefore cannot possibly exist.
‘I hadn’t either. Auditioning was Mr Milford’s idea. He runs the choir at school.’
‘Wait, you’re in the school choir?’ Bonnie asks. ‘You didn’t say anything.’
‘I know … Look, the thing is, the audition is in London and I need to take an adult with me.’
‘London?’ Bonnie says, her eyes lighting up.
‘Yes. At the Royal Academy of Music.’
‘Would we have time to do some shopping?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe. Does that mean you’ll come?’
‘Well, when is it?’
‘That’s the thing, it’s tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow? Why didn’t you ask me before now?’
I hesitate. I don’t want Bonnie to know she’s literally my last resort.
‘I didn’t realize until now. It was in the small print.’
She seems to buy it. ‘Can we go to Harrods?’ she asks eagerly.
‘Er, sure,’ I say, even though I have no idea if Harrods is anywhere near the audition venue.
‘And Liberty’s?’
‘If we have time …’
‘How exciting,’ she says. ‘I haven’t been to London in ages.’
I smile faintly. I should be pleased. I was worried she’d say no, or make me grovel. Instead, though, all I feel a creeping sense of dread.
28
We are halfway to the station when Bonnie announces she’s forgotten her purse. On returning to the house, it takes us a full fifteen minutes to find it, my anxiety doubling with every second that passes. I try to keep calm, to trick my body into thinking everything is under control, but by the time we leave the house for the second time, my carefully selected audition outfit is sticking to the fresh film of nervous sweat coating my skin.
We only just make the train. Finally in our seats, I put on my headphones in an effort to mask the squelching sound of Bonnie applying handcream and look out of the window, the countryside rushing past me in a blur of sludgy browns and dingy greens.
Bonnie keeps glancing over at me. I pretend not to notice, worried if I make eye contact she’ll ignite my annoyance. After the stressful start, I’m more determined than ever for the rest of the day to go smoothly.
After a few minutes, Bonnie taps me on the arm. Reluctantly, I remove my headphones.
‘I’m going to get a coffee from the buffet car. Want anything?’
‘No thanks.’
Bonnie shrugs as if to say ‘suit yourself’ and pushes herself up out of her seat. She returns a few minutes later with a cup of coffee and a packet of shortbread. ‘Want one?’ she asks, removing the lid from her coffee and dipping in one of the biscuits.
I shake my head, put my headphones back on, close my eyes and try to focus on my audition material and the day ahead.
I’m murmuring the lyrics of my second piece under my breath when I feel hot liquid on my leg. My eyes fly open in shock as I yelp with pain. Next to me, what’s left of Bonnie’s coffee is dripping off the edge of her tray table.
‘It wasn’t my fault,’ she cries, grabbing a napkin and dabbing uselessly at my coffee-soaked jeans. ‘Some bloke knocked my arm. See, up ahead, the one with the denim jacket and the stupid big bag.’
‘Why did you take the lid off in the first place?’ I snap, snatching the napkin from her hand.
‘You can’t dunk with the lid on,’ Bonnie says in a sulky voice. ‘I mean, how was I to know he was about to come barging past? I bet once they’re dry you won’t even notice,’ she adds.
I don’t want to hear it. I put my headphones back on and turn towards the window. ‘Don’t talk to me until we get to London,’ I say.
I angle my body away from her, rest my head against the window and shut my eyes. Wide awake, I stay like that for the rest of the journey.
We arrive into St Pancras station at 1.30 p.m., a full hour and a half before my audition slot.
The audition venue is the Royal Academy of Music. ‘We need to get the Hammersmith and City line to Baker Street,’ I say once we’ve passed through the ticket barriers.
‘What about lunch?’ Bonnie asks.
‘I made sandwiches, remember,’ I say.
‘Oh, it’s too cold for sandwiches,’ Bonnie says with a theatrical shiver. ‘Let’s get something hot here first. Your audition isn’t for ages. Ooh, how about some pasta? That’ll warm us up. I’ll eat quickly, I promise.’
‘No, Bonnie,’ I say.
‘It’ll be my treat!’
‘I said no.’
‘But it’s a special day.’
I don’t say anything.
‘Please, Ro,’ she adds, pulling on my sleeve. ‘I want to make up for this morning.’
‘If you’re that desperate for pasta, we can get some afterwards.’
‘No! We’re going to Harrods and Paperch
ase afterwards, remember? Oh, please, Ro. You can have anything you want, anything at all.’
‘But I don’t want anything.’
‘Don’t be daft, you must be starving! Now, come on, you’ll thank me for it, I promise.’ She’s tugging at my arm now, like a toddler begging for ice cream.
‘Oh my God, OK!’ I cry, shaking her off.
She beams.
‘We’ll have to be quick though. I mean it, Bonnie.’
‘Of course we will!’ she says happily.
The station’s branch of Carluccio’s is stupidly busy. The front of house manager greets us with a fixed smile and leads us to a table at the back of the restaurant where we’re forgotten for a full ten minutes. But Bonnie is still dithering over the menu when our waiter finally appears, full of apologies for the delay.
Bonnie proceeds to ask him a series of questions about both the linguine and the lasagne before opting for the seafood spaghetti, one of the most expensive items on the menu. My nerves jangle with every word that falls out of her mouth. What happened to her promise to be quick?
‘And for you?’ the waiter asks, turning to me.
‘Nothing, thank you,’ I say, handing him my menu.
‘What?’ Bonnie cries.
‘I’m not hungry. I’ll just have a sandwich later.’
The stress of the morning combined with my growing audition nerves has tied my stomach in knots. The idea of adding a heaping bowl of pasta is unthinkable.
‘Don’t be so silly,’ Bonnie says. She turns to the waiter. ‘She’ll have a margherita pizza.’
When it arrives, I manage to force down a single slice, my legs tremoring under the table as Bonnie lingers over her seafood spaghetti, taking at least twenty seconds to wind each mouthful around her fork, giggling every time the strands slip back into the bowl.
‘I thought you were going to be quick,’ I say, my voice shaking with mounting trepidation.
‘Relax, we’ve still got plenty of time,’ Bonnie replies.
I check my phone. Technically, she’s right. The tube journey should only take five minutes and there’s still an hour until my slot. But when I planned out the day, I’d imagined being at the audition venue by now, warming up in a quiet corner. Not in the world’s noisiest branch of Carluccio’s, my heart rate soaring with every minute that passes.
Bonnie finally declares herself full, resting her hands on her belly as the waiter collects our plates.
‘Can we get the bill please?’ I ask.
‘No dessert? Coffee?’
‘No,’ I yelp before Bonnie gets any ideas.
The waiter returns in what feels like an eternity later with the card machine. I already have my coat on so we can make a swift getaway the second he gives us our receipt. Bonnie takes an age to find her bank card, handing it over with a girlish giggle that would make me want to crawl under the table were I not so stressed about the time.
When the waiter places the card on the sensor, it responds with a dull bleep.
‘Ah, I’m afraid the payment didn’t go through,’ he says.
I throw Bonnie a panicked look but she doesn’t appear to notice, humming as she pulls a second card from her bulging purse. It produces the same heart-stopping bleep.
‘How odd,’ Bonnie says. ‘How much is the bill again?’
The waiter recites the total. ‘Excluding service charge,’ he adds with a tight smile.
I grab my purse, searching through it with trembling fingers.
‘I have ten pounds,’ I say. ‘What cash do you have?’
Bonnie laughs. ‘Oh, you know me, Ro, I never carry cash. I’m like the Queen!’ She flashes the waiter one of her very best smiles. ‘I’ll just pop to the cashpoint. Be right back.’
As Bonnie makes her way out of the restaurant, I check the time. Fifty minutes to go. I do the maths. Even if we don’t board the tube for another ten minutes, I’ll still arrive over half an hour early. It does little to quell my growing ease though.
Nothing will until I’m there.
Another five minutes pass. Where on earth is she? The nearest cashpoint can’t be that far away, surely.
My phone buzzes. It’s a text from Bonnie. I leap on it.
I’m overdrawn! You’re going to have a make a run for it. I’ll see you in Paperchase xx
My eyes bulge. Is she actually serious? I call her number.
No answer.
I scan the restaurant for the waiter. He’s busy setting up a high chair for a family who have just arrived, his back to me. The rest of the staff members are equally preoccupied, taking orders or delivering food. My heart hammering, I pull up the furry hood on my coat and walk briskly through the restaurant.
The second I fall out onto the station concourse, I break into a run, dodging tourists and school groups and people recording videos of an elderly man playing ‘The Entertainer’ on one of the station’s upright public pianos.
As promised, Bonnie is in Paperchase, looking at the greetings cards.
‘Oh hello,’ she says casually. ‘I was wondering where you’d got to.’
‘Are you actually kidding me?’ I ask, my chest heaving up and down, partly from physical exertion, partly from red-hot anger.
Bonnie blinks, her eyes as wide as saucers. ‘Excuse me?’
How dare she act the innocent right now? How dare she?
‘I just ran out of a restaurant without paying and you’re shopping?’ I splutter.
Bonnie holds the clutch of cards in her hands to her chest. The one facing out has an image of two pretzels on it – one the knotted sort, the other a stick. There’s a speech bubble floating above the pretzel stick’s head – ‘Why does everything have to be so complicated?’ I want to throw it on the floor and stamp on it.
Instead, I snatch the lot from her hands and shove them back on the rack.
‘Hey, I was going to buy those!’ Bonnie says.
‘What with? I thought you had no cash?’ I snap. The sales assistant is looking at us. I grab Bonnie by the wrist and yank her towards the door.
‘You’re hurting me,’ Bonnie cries.
I let go, and begin to march towards the Underground entrance, Bonnie’s high-heeled boots clip-clopping against the tiled floor as she scurries to keep up.
‘You’re being daft,’ she says. ‘It’s hardly the crime of the century!’
‘What if they’d caught me leaving?’ I demand. ‘They could have called the police. They still might.’
‘Over a seafood spaghetti and a margherita pizza? Don’t be silly—’
Bonnie’s words are suddenly drowned out by a fuzzy tannoy announcement:
‘Due to a security alert, this station has been temporarily closed. No Underground trains will be stopping at King’s Cross St Pancras. Please use alternative routes to complete your journey.’
There’s a collective groan from everyone heading in our direction.
I swear under my breath. We’re cutting it fine now. Too fine. Fresh panic forms in my belly.
‘Come on,’ I say, turning on my heel and heading for the exit.
Outside the station, the queues at the bus stops are epic.
‘We’re going to have to walk,’ I say, pulling out the map included with the audition letter and tracing our route.
‘But my boots are starting to rub,’ Bonnie says.
‘So why did you wear them?’ I yell, losing my patience.
‘Don’t shout at me!’ Bonnie cries, her hands over her ears.
‘Oh, just come on,’ I cry.
After the artificial lighting in the station, the daylight makes me squint. The roads are busy, cars and taxis and red buses and motorcycles roaring past, the heat from their engines warm against my cheeks, hordes of tourists and office workers clogging up the pavements. Bonnie hobbles behind me. I block out her complaints about her feet and try to focus.
We should cross over so we’re on the right side of the road. I stop at a set of traffic lights and press the button before
turning to make sure Bonnie has noticed I’ve stopped.
But Bonnie is nowhere to be seen.
My body swells with panic. The last time I looked, Bonnie was maybe ten paces behind me, fifteen at the most.
I retrace my steps, fighting against the flow of the pedestrians. The sun is in my eyes, flashes of white obscuring my vision.
No Bonnie. I feel sick. She couldn’t have just vanished into thin air.
Could she?
I’m digging out my phone when I hear someone calling my name. I whirl around.
Bonnie is standing in the doorway of a fried chicken shop, one of her boots in her hand, a pained expression on her face.
‘What’s wrong?’ I ask.
‘It’s my feet,’ she wails. ‘Look.’ She balances on one leg and peels off her sock. The back of her heel is bright red, the exposed skin raw and shiny.
‘I can’t take another step,’ she says. ‘I’m in agony!’
‘Maybe we could swap.’
The moment the suggestion leaves my mouth, I know it’s ridiculous. My feet are at least two sizes bigger than Bonnie’s. There’s no way I can squeeze my feet into her ridiculous boots with their impossibly pointy toes.
‘What if I get you some plasters?’ I say, desperately trying not to get angry. ‘Would that help?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe.’
‘Wait here.’
And for the third time that day, I break into a run.
I’m at the front of the queue in Boots when I reach into my bag and realize my purse is missing.
‘Just one second,’ I say to the sales assistant, my heartbeat accelerating as I search.
No purse.
Panic building, I empty the contents of my bag on the floor to a chorus of tuts from the people queuing behind me. The sight of my sheet music for the audition I’m now bound to be late for makes my stomach clench.
I gather up my stuff, apologize, and dart out of the shop, leaving the box of plasters on the counter.
I must have left my purse in Carluccio’s. As I run, I try to remember whether there was any ID inside it. Does my library card have my name on it? I can’t remember. My brain feels like scrambled eggs.
Bonnie is where I left her, her foot back in her boot.
‘Where are the plasters?’ she asks when she realizes I’m empty-handed.
Paper Avalanche Page 18
