Little Darlings (14 page)

‘Oh no, there are
heaps
of them!' I groan, peering at the result.

‘We've still got nearly a hundred thousand fans all over the world,' Barkie says proudly. ‘Look, one of these Kate Williamses lives in Malta. And here's another in the States.'

‘It won't be them. And it probably won't be
this
Kate – she only just joined.' I sigh in frustration. ‘But I suppose she could be any of the others.'

I think hard about Destiny's mum. I hear her desperate voice. She has a familiar broad accent. ‘She talks sort of northern, like they do in
Coronation Street
,' I say.

‘Then
this
will be her, most likely. This one lives in Wythenlathen,' says Barkie. ‘That's part of Manchester, dear. There's no email address though.'

I seize Barkie's biro and scribble down the postal address on the inside of my wrist before she can stop me. Then I rush off to change. I put on the terrible leggings, but they wrinkle and twist so that it feels as if I've got my legs on backwards, and when I pull on the velvet smock I discover I've spilled strawberry ice cream all down the front. I pick jeans instead, with a stripy top and a little bolero thingy, trying hard to be creative. I hope I might look funky – but judging by Mum's
expression when I go back into the living room, I've failed miserably. None of us children match. Sweetie is still in her school dress, and Ace is in his Tigerman costume and his wellies.

The journalist claps her manicured hands and says we look such
real
children. What else could we be, puppets? Rose-May is frowning and she only allows a couple of quick photos before saying softly, ‘I'm so sorry but the children must go and have their tea now, mustn't they, Suzy? You'll need to supervise them, won't you, darling – but don't worry, I'll sit in with Danny for the rest of the interview and see that everyone's comfortable.'

So we are all cleverly dismissed. We sit at the kitchen table munching Margaret's pizza while Mum prowls restlessly up and down in her gold high heels. She's beautifully made up, but if you look very carefully you can make out dark circles under her eyes and they still look very red.

‘I'm so glad you and Dad are friends again, Mum,' Sweetie says happily, swinging her legs.

‘What do you mean, darling? Daddy and I are always friends,' Mum says sharply.

I flash a warning look at Sweetie. Can't she see they were only cosying up together for the journalist's benefit? Sweetie doesn't even see me looking, but Mum does.

‘Don't wrinkle your nose like that, Sunset, it makes you look hideous. And what on
earth
are you wearing? That skimpy little bolero's much too small for you now. And you've got your school shoes with your jeans! What do they
look
like! Where are your boots? Honestly, I spend a fortune on your clothes and you dress like you've just been to a jumble sale.'

She goes on and on, wanting me to answer back so she can tell me off for cheek, but I don't say a word. I just sit there with one of my hands up my sleeve, stroking the inky words on my arm.

I've stroked a little too much. When I'm on my own in my bedroom at long last, when the stupid journalist and photographer are long gone, I examine my arm and see the writing's all smudged – but I can
just
about make it out. I write it out in the back of my school jotter so I have it safely for ever.

Then I go to my wardrobe. Wardrobe City calls to me – but this time I look at all my clothes crammed tightly on the left, and click through all my hangers until I find the little black leather jacket. It is very little. I try it on. It's much too tight under the arms and it won't meet properly across my chest. It's no use to me now – and Sweetie never has my hand-me-down clothes, she
always has brand new. It's no use to anyone stuck in my wardrobe, is it?

Even so, I feel guilty as I take it out and wrap tissue paper round it. It's so soft it folds up neatly into a manageable parcel. Then I search for writing paper. I've just got an old stationery set with goofy teddy bears dancing round the edges. I think it was a going-home present at a party. It's horribly babyish now. She'll probably laugh at it, but it'll have to do.

I sit on the edge of my bed, rest the notepaper on a big book, and start writing.

Dear Destiny,
I hope you don't mind me writing to you. I got
your address from the fan club list. It was
lovely to meet you (and your mum) on Sunday.
It was such a surprise to discover that you
might be my sister!!!

I cross out ‘might be' and substitute ‘are' because it sounds as if I don't believe her.

I'm so sorry Mum got so cross.

I start to write,
She is a mean pig
, because she
is
, but I scratch that out because it sounds so
disloyal. I think about
Hi! Magazine
and the words they use when some celebrity shouts and screams.

She is going through emotional turmoil.

I'm pleased with that phrase. I hope I've spelled it properly.

I did tell my dad, just as I promised, but he got
a bit cross too, and wouldn't talk about it
properly. But don't worry, when he's in a good
mood I'll try again.

Meanwhile, as a tiny saying-sorry present I'm
sending you my leather jacket because you said
you liked it. I do hope it fits you OK. I think it
will suit you much more than it ever suited me.
Love from Sunset
My email address is
[email protected]
.
What's yours?

I tuck the letter inside the jacket, then I stick the tissue in place with Sellotape. I want to parcel it up properly right this minute so I risk creeping downstairs again.

I listen hard. There's no shouting, no sobbing. I can hear music coming from the television room, Danny Kilman music. Maybe they're cosied up
together on the sofa, reminiscing. I breathe out happily and tiptoe into the office. Barkie is long gone, of course, but all her office supplies are here. I help myself to her biggest Jiffy bag, the sort she uses for mailing the souvenir Danny Kilman boxed set to other number-one fans.

My little leather jacket just about fits inside, and I stick the top down and write the address. Barkie's got her own franking machine so it's easy-peasy getting it all ready to post. She has a big sack of stuff for John to take to the post office tomorrow. I delve into the sack and position my Jiffy bag right in the middle.

There! I'm so pleased with myself I decide to creep into the kitchen to celebrate. Margaret goes back to her own flat after she's served supper. I can hear the dishwasher chugging away. It'll mask the sound of me opening the Smeg. I know exactly where we keep the ice cream.

My mouth is watering already but it dries as I slip inside the kitchen door. Dad's there, his back to me, and
he's
searching inside the freezer. Is he after ice cream too? I start grinning. Dad is actually meant to be on a diet. Rose-May keeps nagging him about it, saying rock stars have to stay skinny, especially when they're more mature. Dad's meant to eat stuff like fish and chicken with
steamed veg, though he often asks Margaret for one of his favourite fry-ups. He's not supposed to have any puddings at all – though he's fishing out a Magnum now and nibbling at it as he chats on his mobile.

I shake my head at him even though he can't see me. Maybe if he's in a good mood I'll be able to tease him about it. I'll wait till he's off the phone and then I'll sneak up on him and go ‘Gotcha!' It might make him laugh.

He's laughing now, but very, very quietly. ‘You are such a bad, bad girl,' he whispers.

Who's he talking to? He doesn't talk to any of us like this, all warm and husky, not even Sweetie.

‘But you
mustn't
ring. You especially mustn't text – Suzy practically hit the roof when she saw that last message.'

I swallow, standing absolutely still.

‘I know, I know, I'd give anything to be with you too, baby,' Dad murmurs. ‘Last night was so wonderful – but I can't risk it. Rose-May's trying to get this album deal set up now that the film's on general release next week. Yeah, yeah, I know it will be good publicity, but I'm seen as a family man now, it's part of the package. Yeah, I know it sucks. We'll be together soon, baby, I promise. I can't wait.'

I back out of the kitchen, shivering. I stand in the hall, hearing
Always and For Ever
playing in the living room. Always and For Ever! Dad's planning to dump us, walk out on all of us.

I run into the living room. Mum's lying on the sofa, her white top all rucked up, her hair a mess – but she smiles sleepily at me. She's got a glass of wine in her hand. It looks like she's already drunk a lot more.

‘I thought you were in bed, Sunset,' she says indistinctly. She holds out her arms to me, forgetting she's got the wine glass.

‘Oops!' she says as it spills over her top. ‘Clumsy! Come here, darling. Come and watch your clever old dad. See the way the crowd's singing along with him, all those arms waving, all those girls mouthing the words.'

‘Mum—'

‘They all want him but he's
ours
, Sunset. He's our Danny, and we love him, darling, don't we? He might stay out half the night and break our hearts – but he always comes back.'

‘Mum, what if one time he didn't come back?' I say. ‘What if he went off with some other girl?'

‘What? Stop it, don't talk like that! Why do you always have to spoil things? Do you think it's clever? Just go to bed, go on. And see what's
happened to your dad. He was meant to be fetching another bottle of wine.'

She says I always spoil things. I could really spoil things now. I look at her lying there in her crumpled clothes, glaring at me. She looks like Sweetie in a temper. She looks too
young
to be a mum.

So I don't tell her. I stand out in the hall, not sure if Dad's finished talking on the phone or not.

‘Dad?' I call. ‘Dad, Mum wants you.'

So, OK, Mr Roberts has got us all in the hall and we have to take turns going up on the stage to do our party pieces. And it's weird – this is just a first practice and it's only
us
, plus Mr Roberts and Mrs Avery, our PE teacher, but we're all nervous. The
girls have gone squeaky and giggly, the boys push and shove, and even Angel is acting anxious, prowling up and down, clicking her fingers.

‘This is a mad idea. We're going to look stupid,' she says.

‘Yeah, we don't
have
to do this stuff,' says Jack Myers.

‘Yes, you do – or I'll beat you with my very big stick,' says Mr Roberts.

‘You can't hit any of us, you'll end up in prison, Mr Roberts,' says Jack.

‘Wonderful! No more kids, no more lesson plans, no more marking. It'll be a doddle,' says Mr Roberts. ‘Now, who's going first? How about you go first with your little gang, Jack, then you can relax for the rest of the session. Come on, boys, give me your music.'

‘We haven't practised properly or nothing. We're going to be rubbish,' says Jack.

He's right, they
are
rubbish: they just jump about the stage, Jack leading, all his mates copying, not even looking where they're going so they all bump into each other. They end up red-faced and sheepish. If I were Mr Roberts I'd say,
Yes, you
are
all rubbish
– but he does his best to be positive.

‘I'd say you have a lot of raw talent, lads – with
the emphasis on
raw
,' he says. ‘What do you think, Mrs Avery?'

‘Yeah, you've got a lot of potential, guys. Jack, can you do a somersault?'

‘Sure,' says Jack, spitting on his hands and flipping over.

‘Cool. We'll make a feature of that. I can help you sort out a routine, all you guys dancing in unison. Maybe we can work in one or two surprise elements.'

‘That's not fair, miss, if you're giving them all this help and coaching,' says Rocky Samson, who's in the Speedo dance group.

‘Mrs Avery is here to help everyone, Rocky,' says Mr Roberts. ‘She's a positive saint, prepared to give up her dinner hour every day to help you lot, so I hope you're properly grateful to her. And to yours truly.' He gives an ironic little bow.

Some of us are going to need more help than others. The girl dancers are not too bad. They've been practising in the playground already and they've mostly copied routines off the telly. Raymond's dance is brilliant, not the slightest bit sissy, though the boys were all set to laugh at him. They
don't
laugh at Ritchie and Jeff, though they're supposed to be funny. The girls' play is hopeless – they just waffle, and then there's a
sudden argument and they all start shouting so loudly and so fast you can't even hear what they're saying.