Secrets Read online

  She sniffed resentfully. Then she smiled again. Mum has this really irritating, dazzling smile showing off all her cosmetic dentistry – but her eyes don’t light up. It’s as if her face is a mask and her eyes are the only real bit.

  ‘Still, I suppose we’d better try to be understanding. Dad’s having a hard time at work.’ Mum sighed. ‘Aren’t we all?’ The smile was still there but it was as if she was silently adding, ‘But some of us cope without making all this fuss.’

  Anne Frank loved her dad but frequently couldn’t bear her mother. I feel Anne and I are soul sisters. I love to write too. I write my diary, I write stories and poems, I even wrote the nativity play at school. I tried so hard, rewriting it three whole times, trying to be original, so it was mostly from the animals’ point of view, with the ox and the ass and the littlest lamb as the major characters.

  Mrs Gibbs said in class that it was ‘a lovely idea, don’t you think so, girls?’ Everyone smiled and said it was super. But out in the playground they all groaned and made faces and said it was the most stupid idea ever and who wanted to act as a cow, for God’s sake? Did I think they were all babies?

  I should have said they were all acting like babies right that minute. I didn’t. I just blushed and stammered and said I was sorry, yes it was a mad idea, in fact it absolutely sucked. So then they despised me for being wet as well as babyish and a teacher’s pet. Sometimes I think I despise myself.

  I have bright ginger hair. Most people think this means I have a fearful temper. I do get angry inside but I can’t stick up for myself. I only get furious when I think things aren’t fair for other people.

  Maria waited until the others had all run off and then she put her arm round me and said she thought my play sounded very imaginative. It was maybe more suited to little children. She thought it would work a treat with them.

  Maria was probably just being kind though. She’s kind to everyone.

  I wish Maria was my friend but she’s Alice’s best friend. Everyone in my class has got a best friend – or else they go round in little gangs like Lucy and Imogen and Sarah and Claudia. It’s so awful not having a gang, not having a best friend.

  I used to. I used to have Miranda. We knew each other right from when we were babies because we shared the same nanny while our mums ran this designer scarf company. Miranda and I were almost like sisters. We went to the same kindergarten and then the same school. We always had each other.

  Miranda could be just a bit boring sometimes because she never had any ideas of her own – but I always had heaps of ideas so I suppose it didn’t matter too much. Miranda wasn’t much use at playing pretend games but at least she didn’t laugh at me. When we were little we had two favourites: we played Monkeys, swinging about and being silly and scratching ourselves, or we played the Flying Game, pretending the sleeves of our coats were wings and swooping around all over the place. I know, it sounds so daft now, but we were very little.

  As we got a bit older the two games merged. Flying Monkeys was the best game of all. We pretended we could whizz through open windows and throw peanuts at people. We could ride the weathercock on the church steeple, prance on the roof of the tallest multi-storey and nest in the tops of the poplars on the playing fields. We Flying Monkeys fiercely defended our territory against our enemies, Flying Elephants flapping their vast ears.

  Mum saw us battling it out one day. She didn’t understand this was Flying Animal Warfare. She clapped her hands and said, ‘That looks great fun, girls’ but when she got me on my own she hissed, ‘I wish you wouldn’t shriek so, India. And do you really have to galumph around like that?’

  I said sulkily that I was being an elephant so I was supposed to galumph.

  Mum said, ‘Oh, I see, my little Indian elephant.’

  If Dad had said it he would have been making a funny joke. But Mum was getting at me. She can’t stand it because I’m fat. She’s never actually said it. The nearest we come to it is ‘large’, as in, ‘My daughter’s a little on the large side.’ She whispers the word as if it’s obscene. She thinks it is.

  My mum is so skinny her arms and legs look like you could snap them in half. When she wears a low-cut top you can see all her bones. OK, she’s got a fabulous flat tummy but she’s flat everywhere. She isn’t naturally thin. She is on a permanent diet. She doesn’t say she’s dieting. She says she eats perfectly normally. It isn’t normal to eat fruit and salad and raw vegetables all the time. I know she loves cakes and chocolate like everyone else but she never weakens. Dad once bought us a special big cake from a Viennese patisserie. Mum smiled and said, ‘How gorgeous!’ And then had ONE bite of her slice. It was a little bite too. She’s the same with chocolates. I’ve seen her lick one white Belgian cream chocolate and then throw it in the bin. She is amazing. I could never do that. I am the exact opposite. I could eat an entire great gateau and a giant box of chocolates all by myself, easy-peasy.

  Mum and I have this constant battle. I am supposed to be on a diet but I don’t stick to it. I eat my slither of chicken and my cherry tomatoes and my carrot sticks and my apple and my orange – and then I sneak upstairs and munch two Mars Bars and crunch a whole pack of Pringles.

  Mum went bananas when she found all the empty wrappings under my bed. She shouted all sorts of stuff and I cried and that made her worse because she hates me being a cry-baby. She was furious with Wanda for letting me buy them. Wanda cried too.

  Wanda is even more of a cry-baby than I am. Wanda is our latest au pair. We’ve had lots since I stopped needing a nanny. They never stay long. Mum never likes them. Dad likes the pretty ones so Mum gets rid of them sharpish. Mum and Dad had a big fight over Brigitte. And Selke. And Mai. So Mum decided to try an Australian girl.

  ‘Someone sunny-natured and strong,’ said Mum.

  ‘And bronzed and bouncy and blonde!’ Dad whispered to me, and we both giggled.

  But the laugh was on us, because Wanda isn’t at all the way we wanted her to be. She’s certainly not sunny. She looks vague and misty most of the time, so the kindest way of describing her would be cloudy. When she cries she’s downright dismal. She isn’t strong. She can’t manage more than one bag of shopping and she’s always yawning and flopping down on the sofa and falling asleep. She’s not bronzed and bouncy and blonde. She’s papery-white and droopy, with long, dark, witchy hair. She washes it once a day, sometimes even twice, and walks around with it dripping wet.

  Wanda takes me to school and fetches me in the afternoon and fixes me a few snacks. We’ve done a little deal. We chuck the cottage cheese and celery and carrots straight in the bin and buy secret supplies of sweets and stuff. It’s not fair. Wanda eats as much chocolate and crisps as I do and yet she’s ever so thin, even thinner than Mum.

  Mum hoped she might use Wanda as a cheap personal assistant, taking phone calls and collecting material samples and contacting models, but Wanda wisely made such a mess of things Mum’s banned her from having anything to do with the business.

  My mum is Moya Upton, the children’s clothes designer. She swapped from scarves five years ago, when she couldn’t find any clothes she liked for me. So now she makes ultra-cool designer clothes for kids. There are three Moya Upton shops in London – in Notting Hill, South Kensington and Hampstead – one in Leeds, one in Glasgow, and there’s a special Moya Upton section in Harrods’ Junior Collection department. There was a five-page feature in Vogue last year, and heaps of stuff in the papers. All the girls in my school are mad about Moya Upton clothes.

  The only girl in the entire country who hates Moya Upton clothes is me. They are little and I am big. They are tight and I need loose. They are bright and I like dark. They are sparkly and I like stark. My mum always says she started designing clothes to suit her daughter. I don’t know which daughter that is. It certainly isn’t me.

  Three

  Treasure

  THE FIRST FEW days I got scared every time there was a knock on the door in case it was Mum ready to take me back. I g
ot scared a lot, because Nan is seriously popular and everyone keeps popping round to have a natter with Rita. That’s Nan’s name.

  Everyone treats my nan like they want to be her best friend. She got nearly two hundred Christmas cards; Patsy and I counted them. Nan sticks them up all over the walls with Blu-tack so they look like festive wallpaper. Nan does Christmas so beautifully. There’s a big tree with glass balls and sugar cane candy and tinsel and fairy lights and a fairy doll tied to the top. She’s got wings and a wand with a little silver star. Loretta’s baby Britney absolutely adores the Christmas tree. I pick her up and walk her round and round and she waves her little hands. She likes the fairy doll best of all, reaching up to try and take hold of her, cheeping like a little bird.

  ‘Yes, darling, the fairy!’ I go, and I whirl her around as if she’s got fairy wings and is flying through the air. ‘Shall we make a fairy wish, Britney?’ I say, and I whisper in the tiny whorls of her ear. ‘You want your cousin Treasure to stay here for ever and ever, don’t you?’ I nod my head vigorously and she nods too. I make a bulgy bug-eyed face as if I’m wishing like crazy. Britney laughs and I go, ‘Ping!’ as if the fairy doll has really waved her pipecleaner wand.

  ‘You shouldn’t keep picking her up like that. She’ll only whine when you strap her back in her baby chair,’ said Loretta.

  She doesn’t always like me playing with Britney. Loretta sometimes gets fussed when Nan picks her up. Loretta likes to do everything herself, so that Britney likes her best. It’s a bit silly though, because she’s always tired out, with dark circles round her eyes. She always lies down when Britney has a nap and she gets dead ratty if Patsy and I are playing some game and wake her up.

  ‘Loretta’s feeling a bit down at the moment,’ Nan whispered to me. ‘Don’t worry, it’ll pass.’

  ‘Is it because Britney’s dad doesn’t want to know?’ I whispered back.

  Nan shrugged. ‘Maybe.’

  I nodded and tutted like I understood, all girls together – but I think Loretta’s mad. Boyfriends are Big Trouble. You don’t need them. But babies are lovely. I’m going to have lots when I’m old enough. I told Nan and she laughed.

  ‘Steady on. You’re the bright one of the family, Treasure. Don’t you want to go on to university, be a career girl, eh?’

  ‘I could be a mum and a career girl,’ I said.

  ‘That’s it, Treasure, think big,’ said Nan.

  ‘Think Bighead,’ said Willie, and he bounced his football right at me.

  ‘Watch her new glasses!’ Nan shrieked, and she caught the ball and aimed it at Willie’s head. Hard.

  Nan took me down the optician’s, a posh one where they make your glasses there and then, and now I’ve got brand new specs, little oval metal ones, designer!

  I don’t look quite so awful in them. I truly don’t. If only my hair would grow I might start to look pretty. Maybe I’m going to take after Nan as I get older.

  ‘Old Speccy Four-Eyes,’ Willie chants, but I don’t give a stuff about him.

  ‘Old Pimple Bum-Fuzz,’ I yell back, which really riles him.

  ‘You buzz off back home where you belong,’ he said.

  ‘I belong here now,’ I said.

  I don’t care that Willie doesn’t want me. Or Loretta. Little Britney likes me. Patsy likes me lots. And my nan loves me and says I’m her little Treasure. I love Nan so very, very much. But like I said, everyone loves her.

  We had this BIG New Year’s Eve party last night and I couldn’t believe the number of people who were squashed up in the flat at twelve o’clock. It was just like the tube in the rush hour, only there everyone has glum faces and keeps quiet, whereas here everyone was happy, happy, happy, bouncing about and laughing and dancing and drinking.

  I got to stay up too – and Patsy. Even little Britney made it past midnight. Loretta didn’t mind me holding her because she was dancing all the time. She had a new tiny purple skirt and a tight red top and she suddenly looked great. She’s a fantastic dancer too, obviously taking after Nan. Oh, you should have seen my nan dancing! She looked wonderful in a slinky black dress, low-cut and short so she showed off her legs. Everyone went on at her to demonstrate a spot of line dancing so she did this lovely routine to Shania’s From This Moment and half her dance class joined in, everyone else squashing into corners and sitting six-deep on the sofa to make room on the floor.

  Then Nan and Loretta and Patsy did Red Hot Salsa, hands on hips and wiggling their bottoms. Patsy was especially good, giving a little wink every time she wiggled that made everyone roar with laughter. Nan danced on her own to Tom Jones’ Sex Bomb and everyone clapped like crazy and said Nan was a Sex Bomb all right. They wanted her to go on and on but Nan insisted everyone dance to ordinary disco music. She did too, but sort of fancy, so you still couldn’t take your eyes off her. She saw me watching and beckoned me up on the floor with her and danced me round and round with her, quicker and quicker until I started wheezing and my glasses steamed up.

  I had to have a little puff of my Ventolin then and Nan said I should maybe take it easy, but then it was midnight and we all jumped up and down and screamed, and there was so much kissing! Willie kissed me, but he kissed every girl in the room. He’d been drinking a lot of lager and then he had pink champagne at midnight. I had pink champagne too, half a glass full. I felt as if all the little pink bubbles were fizzing in my head.

  Then the phone started ringing and I got scared in case it was my mum but it was just my Auntie Dolly, Nan’s second eldest, ringing up from Wales. Then Uncle Waylon rang from Sydney in Australia, and then some cousins rang, and some of Nan’s friends. The phone kept ringing and ringing. I got so used to it I stopped jumping every time and thinking it was Mum. In fact a very strange thing happened. I started kind of hoping it might be Mum.

  Don’t get me wrong. I love it here at Nan’s and I don’t ever, ever, ever want to go back home. It’s just I started wondering why my mum doesn’t want me back. Doesn’t she even want to know how I’m getting on? Isn’t she worried about my cut? Why didn’t she want to wish me a happy new year? There were people ringing from the other side of the world. Couldn’t my mum be bothered to ring from the other side of London?

  Patsy saw I looked a bit down and asked if I had a headache from drinking the pink champagne. She was convinced we’d get dreadful hangovers even though we only had a few sips each. Nan was surrounded by all these stupid men wanting to kiss her but she spotted me in the corner and came and gave me a cuddle.

  I didn’t tell her what was wrong. I didn’t have to.

  ‘Do you want to ring your mum, sweetheart?’ she whispered.

  I nodded. Then I shook my head. Then I shrugged.

  Nan seemed to understand that too.

  ‘You have a little think about it, darling. You could always ring tomorrow, eh, just in case she’s gone to bed tonight. And you don’t want to risk talking to that animal, do you?’

  ‘Definitely not.’

  I cheered up a little deciding precisely which species of animal Terry might belong to. I fancied the idea of a hippopotamus because they’re big and fat and ugly and they yawn a lot showing all their teeth – and according to this nature film I saw on the telly they spray their dung about in a totally disgusting manner.

  There were all sorts of bangs and whizzes outside from fireworks so Nan said we could watch them from her bedroom in the front of the house. I wanted to show little Britney but she’d curled up fast asleep in a corner, all cuddled up with Nan’s turquoise furry python doorstop. She looked so cute.

  Willie was chatting with some of the big boys in the kitchen (and drinking more lager) so it was just Patsy and me. It’s a big treat going into Nan’s bedroom because it’s all red velvet and pink satin with lovely pictures of cherubs on the walls and a big gilt dressing-table with all Nan’s make-up and scent bottles and a proper matching silver hairbrush and mirror set decorated with little cherub heads. I asked Nan if they were a really valuable antique a
nd she cracked up laughing and said, ‘I’m the only really valuable antique in this flat, Treasure.’

  But Nan doesn’t look a bit old. She looks very young. She and my mum could be sisters. In fact when Nan’s all dressed up and Mum’s all white and worried and needing to wash her hair then it looks like Nan is my mum’s daughter. And then Nan could be my mum and I’d be Patsy so I’d be pretty and sweet and talented. I wouldn’t wear glasses and have a pinched face and limp hair. I wouldn’t think weird things and get on everyone’s nerves.

  Patsy tied up the pink ruffles on Nan’s curtains and we stared out at the fireworks shooting up into the sky.

  ‘Wow!’ said Patsy. ‘Wow! Wow! Wow!’

  She started to get on my nerves. She sounded like a little dog. The fireworks were so beautiful they made my chest ache. I shook every time another rocket exploded. I stared until my eyes went blurry.

  ‘Are you crying, Treasure?’ Patsy asked, peering at me in the dim light.

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘You are. Does your forehead hurt?’

  ‘It’s OK.’

  ‘It must be so weird being all stitched up like that. How come they used that ugly black thread?’ She touched one of the stitches very gently, shuddering a little.

  ‘They don’t fuss about the colour. They just want to stop all the blood leaking out.’

  ‘Yuck. He’s so horrible, Uncle Terry. How could he do that to you?’

  ‘He’s done worse. He’s not Uncle Terry, though. He’s nothing.’

  ‘I’m Auntie Patsy.’

  ‘Yeah, right, we’ve done all that bit.’

  Another rocket exploded, another and another, the whole sky raining pink and green and gold, and Patsy did her dainty little doggy, ‘Wow! Wow! Wow!’

  ‘It’s better than Bonfire Night, isn’t it?’ she said, leaning against me. ‘I wonder who’s letting them off? I suppose it’s all those posh nobs up in Parkfield.’ She said the name slowly and softly, but with great emphasis, as if it was the most special place in all the world. Forget London, New York, San Francisco, Sydney – Parkfield’s the place.