I know there hasn’t been much fun in Sami’s life these last few years, so I can see how this might appeal.
‘Hope so,’ Romy says. ‘I honestly didn’t think I’d be able to come, but Mum was determined. She’s organized her cousin to come down from Scotland and look after her while I’m gone.’
Nobody is more astonished than I am that Romy’s coming on the trip to Devon. If she’d backed out, I’d have felt less guilty about doing the same, but everyone’s so excited I feel I can’t cry off. Besides, my parents would never forgive me.
Lexie takes a bite of her chocolate flake and grins. ‘Six whole days working with Britain’s best-loved pop legend. It’s going to be so cool!’
‘He probably lives in a mansion,’ Romy says. ‘I mean, he’s pop royalty, isn’t he? Imagine someone like that being interested in us!’
‘Ked believes in us,’ Sami says. ‘He must know everyone in the music business. This could really change things for us!’
Jake spoons up the last of his hot chocolate, watching me, and somehow his blue-eyed gaze dislodges the cool-girl mask I’m trying to hold in place.
‘I’m dreading it,’ I blurt, and everyone stares at me, wide-eyed. ‘I mean, there’s so much riding on this! What if I mess up, let everyone down?’
The words are out now. It’s like I’ve let the genie out of the bottle, and there’s no way of getting it back in again.
‘Is that all?’ Jake says, breaking the silence. ‘Trust me, Sasha, we’re all a bit wary – even me, and I’m not properly part of the band! This is a big deal – for all of us, and for the Lost & Found as a whole. We’d be weird if we didn’t have some worries!’
‘I am terrified too,’ Sami admits, laughing.
‘Petrified,’ Lexie agrees.
‘Scared stupid,’ Romy chips in.
And then Jake laughs, a big hearty laugh that wipes the crackle of tension clean away, and we’re all laughing, big, ungainly whoops of laughter that have us clutching each other madly. I’m not alone after all – my friends feel the same. We all have doubts, we all have fears … we’re all in it together.
‘Come back at the weekend!’ the waiter with the pocket watch calls as we mooch towards the door. ‘We’ll have a new batch of healthy cakes in. Wheatgrass, goji berry and crunchy kale flapjacks!’
‘Sure,’ Lexie says, polite as ever.
But of course by Saturday we’ll be in Devon.
We split up, the others heading into town to pick up last-minute bits and pieces for the trip. I make an excuse and head for home and Jake tags along.
‘Tell your parents,’ he says, the moment we’re alone. ‘They’ll know what to do. It could be something really simple, something they can fix with vitamin pills, or a sun lamp or a steady supply of hot chocolate and raw vegan cupcakes.’
‘If only …’
‘Tell your parents,’ Jake pushes. ‘Please?’
I allow the thought to flicker across my mind. Is Jake right? Could I tell them? I am so weary of keeping all this to myself.
‘Maybe,’ I concede at last.
‘Definitely maybe.’
Jake drops a wrapped chocolate lime into my blazer pocket, smiles and walks away.
178 likes
SashaSometimes Packing …
Kezsez07 First like!
littlejen Ooh, holiday?
Tilly08 Where d’you get the cute hat?
_Brownie_ Off on tour?
SaraLou Tell us more!
MattBFotos Cannot wait!
9
Nothing to Worry About
It’s such a long time since I’ve heard raised voices at home that I almost don’t recognize the sound of my parents, angry, yelling.
‘This whole thing is stupid!’ my dad says. ‘Can’t you see that? Why do you never listen to me?’
‘Because sometimes you’re wrong!’ Mum’s voice blazes. ‘Why can’t you just trust me? You always have to think the worst –’
My key turns in the lock and I step into the hallway. The raised voices halt at once and my parents’ shocked faces stare at me from the open-plan kitchen. Dad’s fists are clenched and Mum looks like she’s been crying.
Panic flares inside me.
‘Oh, hello, pet,’ Mum says, as if she’s doing nothing more unusual than unpacking the shopping. ‘Fancy omelette for tea? Ice cream for afters?’
‘Why were you shouting?’ I ask.
‘We weren’t shouting,’ Dad says with a frown. ‘Just … discussing something.’
‘Nothing to worry about,’ Mum adds.
I don’t believe them. I’d let myself imagine coming home, sitting down at the kitchen table, finding the words to tell my parents there was something wrong, that I was zoning out several times a day and terrified that I couldn’t hide it any longer.
Instead, I’d walked right into the kind of row I thought was ancient history.
The air still crackles with tension, and I watch as my dad picks up his keys.
‘I’m heading back up to the site,’ he says gruffly. ‘Got some paperwork to do, and I want to check everything’s been left OK. See you later.’
‘Wait –’ my mum begins, but Dad’s gone, the front door clicking firmly shut behind him.
‘Mum?’ I say. ‘What’s wrong?’
She turns to face me, eyes bright, smile only a little wobbly. ‘Nothing’s wrong, Sash, I promise you! Everything’s fine – more than fine! So … omelette? Give me half an hour and it’ll be on the table. Have you got homework?’
‘Always,’ I say. ‘I guess I’ll get it out of the way …’
In my room, I kick off my still-damp shoes and socks, hang my blazer on the radiator. My hands are shaking and there’s a barbed-wire knot of anxiety in my gut.
My parents are fighting again.
Is it money troubles as I thought the other day? Is someone ill? Is something wrong at work? What has made Dad so angry with Mum, made her think he doesn’t trust her? I don’t know.
I can’t share my troubles with them now … the last thing they need is me adding to the problem. I need to smooth things out, keep up the pretence that everything’s fine – for now at least.
Maybe I can sort this on my own? Jake’s right, I need to know exactly what’s going on. I pick up my phone and click through to Google. What do I look up, though? Black holes? Vanishing? Blackouts?
I type in ‘zone-out moments’, then falter as a list of results pops up. Do I really want to know? I click on one link and see the words stress, anxiety, depression. Zoning out can be the mind’s way to retreat from stressful situations, the website says. It’s a mental health issue.
Tears blur my eyes and the weight of shame and sadness presses down a little more heavily on my shoulders. Anxiety, stress, depression … it all fits. First my parents rowing, now this? My head can’t process it.
I draw in a deep breath and click away to Instagram, my happy place.
The relief is instant. Now I’m distracted by new likes and comments, the panic recedes. Jake was wrong – knowing more about the problem can only make me feel worse. My only chance of coping is to blank it, get through it, keep trying.
I will not own those words – depression, anxiety. I will not. I push the whole idea away, so far away I can barely see it. Denial is what I’m good at, right?
Forcing a smile on to my face, I haul out the little vintage suitcase that sits beside my dressing table, keeping my make-up and hair stuff tidy. It’s not the case I’m taking to Devon, but it looks good, and I busy myself styling a new image for my Instagram feed, a few pretty scarves and bright tops spilling out artfully. I take my time, make sure I get the right angle, spend a while choosing the best frame and filter and then I post it.
There’s an almost instant reward as the likes and comments begin to flood in, and then my phone beeps with a text from Romy.
Hey Sash, u busy? Bought a couple of things in town but not sure of them. Can I come show u? R x
I te
xt back quickly telling her to head over, and by the time I’ve checked my Instagram feed again and gone down to tell Mum, Romy’s at the door. I feel stronger now, brighter. So what if I’m patched together with denial and Instagram likes? It’s better than falling apart.
The three of us have omelette and salad for dinner. Mum quizzes us about the Devon trip and tries to stay upbeat, but I can see she’s struggling. Afterwards Romy and I wash the dishes and head upstairs.
‘Where’s your dad tonight?’ Romy asks casually.
‘Working late. He and Mum were having a row when I got in – not sure what it was about.’
Romy frowns. ‘Everyone argues, don’t they? They’d tell you if it was anything serious.’
Would they? I’m not sure.
‘Your parents are cool,’ Romy says staunchly. ‘And if they are going through a funny patch – well, you’re away next week, aren’t you? Maybe it’ll give them some space to work things through?’
I bite my lip. ‘You think so?’
‘I know so,’ Romy says. ‘Stop worrying!’
I can’t help laughing. If Romy knew what a mess my head was right now, she’d never believe it.
We’ve talked endlessly about magazines and clothes and boys and music. We’ve even talked about stage fright, compared notes, tried to help each other. I could tell her about the zone-out moments, the fear, even the stuff I saw on the internet. I know she’d listen, I know she’d care, I know she’d never judge. But is it fair to stress her out when she already has so much on her plate?
I should be supporting her, not the other way round.
‘How d’you feel about leaving your mum this week?’ I ask, trying to be the good friend I know I should be. ‘Are you OK about it?’
Romy shrugs. ‘I think so. Mum’s cousin Maggie arrived yesterday, and we’ve gone through all the routines, all the stuff she might need to know. Mum’s fairly well just now, so … it should be fine! To be honest, she’s so excited about the whole idea of us going to record with Ked Wilder that I don’t think it was ever an option for me not to go.’
I grin. ‘My parents are the same,’ I confess. ‘I just hope … well, I don’t want to let the band down!’
‘You won’t let anyone down,’ Romy says. ‘I know how you feel. I still get terrible nerves when we perform in front of an audience, but you told me to act confident, look the part – and that helps. I’m better than I used to be. And nobody would ever guess you were nervous. You look every inch the star!’
‘I don’t feel that way.’
‘You hide it well,’ Romy promises.
She’s right, but I’m not sure how much longer I can keep up the facade.
Romy nudges me. ‘The other thing you’re hiding well is whatever’s going on with you and Matt Brennan,’ she teases. ‘Go on, spill … has he asked you out yet?’
‘Why is everyone so fixated on me and Matt Brennan?’ I exclaim, faking outrage. ‘We’re just friends, that’s all. Jake was practically warning me off him earlier. I mean – what the heck? It’s none of his business at all!’
Romy raises an eyebrow. ‘Yeah, but Jake has a thing for you himself, doesn’t he?’ she says. ‘Don’t be too hard on him.’
I blink. ‘Huh? Jake? I don’t know what you’re talking about!’
‘You must have noticed,’ she says. ‘He goes all mushy when you’re around!’
‘He doesn’t! Does he?’
Romy grins. ‘He’s really nice, Sasha. Funny and kind. But I do sort of see the attraction of Matt Brennan’s quiff.’
‘Matt’s so good-looking,’ I sigh. ‘A bit too good-looking, almost. And he’s really easy to talk to and so talented …’
Romy’s eyes shine. ‘I bet something happens while we’re in Devon,’ she says. ‘A kiss, maybe? Your first kiss! He’s going to ask you out – I just know it! The question is, who will you pick? Matt or Jake?’
I roll my eyes. I like Jake a lot, but he’s no match for Matt Brennan. Then again, neither am I – if Matt ever did ask me out, I’d be way out of my depth. But also on cloud nine …
‘What about you?’ I ask. ‘Any romance in the air?’
Romy blushes. ‘Not really. I mean, you know I quite like George … but he never really notices me. Maybe this week will change that? I want to look my best – can I show you what I bought?’ From her bag, Romy pulls out a baggy jumper and a red plaid shirt big enough to fit my dad. ‘I wish you’d been there to help me choose. The assistant said these were perfect for a curvy shape, but I’m not sure. I don’t want to look frumpy and dull.’
‘Oh, Romy! You’re not frumpy, not one bit … but I’m not sure the shop assistant gave you great advice. These tops are huge!’
Romy shrugs. ‘So am I!’
‘You are not!’ I argue. ‘You’re so hard on yourself … there’s nothing wrong with your figure at all. So you’ve got curves – good! You look amazing. But you don’t need to follow other people’s rules and hide under shapeless layers!’
‘Easy for you to say,’ Romy says with a sigh.
‘Oh, Romy, that’s not true! I’m a million miles from perfect – you know that more than anyone. It’s all about confidence and attitude – and if you don’t feel confident, acting like you do can help. That’s all any of us do! Pick out the clothes that flatter, use a bit of make-up maybe. Seriously … make the most of what you’ve got!’
I pull out a drawer and throw a couple of T-shirts and a miniskirt in black stretchy fabric at my friend. Romy is bigger than me but not as tall, and I’m willing to bet some of my stuff will fit her.
Romy, bemused, tries on a black T-shirt with the miniskirt, but she can’t bear to look in the mirror until I let her layer the red plaid shirt on top. It looks amazing.
‘I look … I dunno, I look OK!’ she says, astonished.
I grin. ‘See? You look great,’ I tell her. ‘That jumper will look great with the miniskirt too! Honestly, Romy, you’re beautiful – a proper hourglass shape. Hang on – that’s given me an idea!’
I rummage through the back of my wardrobe and pull out a vintage fifties dress that once belonged to my gran. She gave it to me for a fancy-dress party last year, but the bright, busy print and the cinched-in waist didn’t suit me.
They suit Romy all right – she looks incredible.
‘Borrow this lot for Devon,’ I say. ‘George won’t know what’s hit him!’
Romy gives a little twirl, her face bright with excitement, ‘OK, Sasha – you next for the makeover treatment!’ she says.
Her taste is a little more out there than mine, and I’m prancing about in an old polka-dot onesie with a tiara in my hair when Mum knocks gently on the door to tell us that Maggie, the Scottish cousin, has arrived to drive Romy home.
‘Aww – we never got to play with the make-up,’ I say.
‘Next time,’ Romy says. ‘Thanks, Sash. For the clothes, and … well, everything!’ She sheds the floppy hat and feather boa she’s been wearing, picks up her bag and runs out to the car.
‘Looks like you two’ve been having fun,’ Mum says, as we wave Romy off. ‘Sorry to cut it short. We could still play with make-up, if you like?’
So that’s what we do, Mum dabbing and painting and stroking my face with colour, the way she has so many times before. I let go, relax – and when I open my eyes again I can see she’s painted dramatic zebra stripes on my eyelids and fake beauty spots shaped like little black hearts.
I throw my arms round Mum, laughing, but I suddenly notice dark shadows under her eyes I’ve never noticed before. She has looked tired and washed-out these last few weeks I realize. If I hadn’t been so wrapped up in myself, I’d have noticed sooner.
Something’s wrong.
‘Mum … you would tell me, wouldn’t you? If anything was up?’
She sighs. ‘Nothing to worry about, pet. Honestly … nothing at all.’
10
Fox Hollow Hall
The minibus sweeps to a halt in front of
an imposing sandstone mansion draped in ivy and late-flowering roses. This is Fox Hollow Hall, Ked Wilder’s home in Devon – and our home too for the next few days. I take in a deep breath.
‘Here we are!’ the driver calls out. His name is Mike, and he lives here – he used to be one of Ked Wilder’s roadies, but now he works in Ked’s studio and sometimes helps out as a driver. ‘Everybody out! I’ll open the back and you can get your luggage.’
My feet crunch on thick gravel and I set down my shoulder bag and stretch. Four hours in a minibus gets kind of tiring, even when you’ve spent part of it sitting next to a cute Year Eleven boy with a wayward quiff and a ready supply of conversation, big dreams and a family-sized bag of cheese and onion crisps.
‘Wow,’ Matt says. ‘This place … it’s incredible!’
‘Like a palace,’ Romy agrees.
‘Whaddya think, Mary Shelley?’ Lexie asks, lifting her pet tortoise out of her carrying case. ‘This is home for the next few days! Awesome, huh?’
The little tortoise gazes up at Fox Hollow Hall, awed and silent – I know how she feels. I’m used to the fading grandeur of Louisa Winter’s house, but this place is something else. Every window gleams, every climbing rose is neatly pruned … even the gravel has been raked to a perfect thickness. Just ahead of us, Ked Wilder’s vintage red Triumph Spitfire is parked rakishly, the bodywork buffed to a high shine. To one side of the main house, a huge, ornate conservatory leans against the building, and I can see flashes of turquoise water and tall tropical plants inside.
A swimming pool!
The fear inside me stills and fades, replaced by the fizz of excitement and hope.
‘It really is amazing!’ I exclaim, hauling my suitcase from the minibus. ‘Like another world – I can’t quite believe it!’
‘Believe it,’ Matt replies. ‘It’s another world all right, and we’re part of it – for a few days, anyhow. How cool is that?’
He steps back a couple of paces, raising his camera to capture shots of us grappling with rucksacks, cases and instruments.
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