2: Chocolate Box Girls: Marshmallow Skye (9 page)

‘OK, Skye, I need your help,’ he says. ‘You are a girl, so you might be able to tell me where I’ve been going wrong. I have a plan, and you can help me make it happen. The thing is … I want to be irresistible to women.’

I choke on my hot chocolate, snorting in a very unladylike way.

Alfie’s cheeks glow pink. ‘What?’ he asks, sounding a little hurt. ‘Is that funny or something?’

‘No, no,’ I assure him. ‘I wasn’t laughing. It’s just that
some of my hot chocolate went down the wrong way …’

‘Yeah, right,’ Alfie sulks. ‘That is exactly the problem. I am crushing on a girl who thinks I am a complete idiot, and it hurts, so I figured I should do some homework on what girls are actually looking for in a boy. I don’t actually spend much time with girls, apart from my little sisters. They are a bit of a mystery to me. And obviously, we have been friends forever, so who better to ask than you?’

Friends forever? I’m not sure that’s how I’d describe it … although I vaguely recall he was at the last big birthday party Summer and I had, when we were nine, the year Dad left. He ate all the sausage rolls, most of the trifle, and at least half a dozen chocolate cupcakes, and ended up being sick in the bathroom. He did give us a packet of Rolos each as presents, but he must have got hungry on the way because half of mine were missing.

Alfie takes out a notepad and pen and looks at me expectantly.

‘You’re taking notes?’ I ask. ‘Seriously?’

‘It’s a very serious problem,’ he says. ‘Like I said, there is this girl I like. I have liked her for quite a while, but she thinks I am an idiot.’

Got to be Tia, I think. I am not sure there is any hope for Alfie’s crush.

‘Is there anywhere you can see where I might be going wrong?’ he asks. ‘Any tips?’

I sigh. ‘OK then – hair,’ I begin. ‘Ditch the straighteners and the gel. You look like a maniac.’

‘But … I got this look out of a fashion mag!’ he protests. ‘It takes me half an hour every morning to get right!’

‘That’s just it – I’m not sure you
are
getting it right,’ I say patiently. ‘You look like you’ve ironed your fringe in about seven different directions, then had a fight with a tub of gel and a can of hairspray. Trust me, it’s not a good look. Ditch it – stay in bed for an extra half-hour. Go for the natural look.’

‘OK,’ he says, scribbling in the notebook. ‘Anything else?’

‘You need to dredge up a few manners. Like this week, with the sponge pudding at school … that was kind of distressing. Slow down a little. Eat your food, don’t wear it!’

Alfie grins. ‘I can do that,’ he says. ‘Definitely.’

‘And no more clowning around in class,’ I add. ‘That’s important. It’s … well, kind of childish. You are thirteen now, right? Practical jokes just aren’t that funny any more.’

Alfie’s eyes widen. ‘But … everyone laughs!’ he argues. ‘They expect it of me! I am the class joker!’

‘I thought you wanted to be the class Romeo?’

He frowns.

‘What would happen if you stopped the messing about?’ I ask. ‘You would have less detentions, get more work done, spend less time sitting outside Mr King’s office writing lines. Teachers would like you. People would take you more seriously. And that is exactly what they’re not doing at the moment, right?’

‘Girls?’ Alfie checks.

‘Well … maybe,’ I shrug.

‘But I thought girls liked funny boys?’ he questions. ‘Making someone laugh is supposed to be a good thing, isn’t it? Besides, I am going to be a stand-up comedian one day. It’s probably my only talent!’

‘You have lots of talents!’ I say kindly. ‘Probably. Just … maybe not comedy. You need people to laugh
with
you, not at you. I think there’s more to you than class clown.’

Alfie stares gloomily down at the remnants of the cake he has just demolished. ‘Maybe I could be a chef?’

‘Maybe,’ I agree. ‘Whatever you decide to do – you are
an OK person, Alfie Anderson, underneath all the jokes and the messing about.’

It’s true … there is a kind, caring side to Alfie if you take the time to look for it. I think that Millie is right, that he has potential, and that one day, not too far from now, he might make someone a pretty neat boyfriend. As long as it’s not me, of course.

Someone raps on the window and I just about jump out of my skin – it’s Coco and a bunch of her friends, pulling silly faces and laughing themselves stupid.

‘Get lost!’ I yell, trying to hide behind the menu, and eventually she gets fed up and drifts away.

‘Have your sisters been giving you a hard time?’ Alfie grins. ‘Summer too?’

‘She’s the worst,’ I admit. ‘She thinks it’s hugely funny, you hanging around me and talking to me on the bus. And you have to admit, to outsiders, this could look a little bit like a date. You haven’t actually done anything to make it clear to people that it’s not. It’s like you
want
them to think there’s something going on!’

Alfie grins. ‘Well, it won’t do my reputation any harm to be seen out with you, will it?’

‘Alfie! I do not want to be part of your “irresistible to women” project. OK?’

‘OK,’ he laughs. ‘So. About Summer … you were saying … maybe she’s just a bit jealous?’

‘Er … no, I don’t think so!’ I say.

His face falls, and that’s when the penny drops.

He is not crushing on Tia at all.

I understand now why Alfie tagged along with us on Halloween, why he cut the clowning so fast, the day of Mr Wolfe and the broken window. This is why he went pink in the school canteen, embarrassed to be caught with jam on his face. And this is why I am the perfect person to ask for advice, because of course, I know my twin sister better than anyone else alive.

Alfie’s mystery girl is Summer.

I just can’t work out why that seems to hurt so much.

13

I’m sitting on the caravan steps in the sunshine, beside a boy with sun-brown skin and laughing eyes and a red neckerchief. Dark wavy hair falls across his cheek in unruly waves, and I want to reach out and touch it, but I don’t, of course. Finch takes my hand and the silver bracelets jangle, and he leans close, so close that I can smell woodsmoke on his hair …

I’m woken up by a huge bang from downstairs, and the dream crashes abruptly. It’s Sunday morning, I remember – but normally it’s not this … loud.

‘Something’s going on,’ Summer says from the doorway. ‘Quick!’

When I get down to the kitchen, Paddy is picking up pieces of broken plate and Fred the dog is hoovering up
bacon and everyone else is gathered round the table, looking at a glossy magazine.

‘Look!’ Summer yelps. ‘Look at this! You won’t believe it!’

‘It’s us!’ Coco cuts in. ‘We’re famous!’

I lean in to look, and there on the pages of the Sunday paper’s magazine are pictures of us, taken in the summer at the Chocolate Festival we staged to launch the Chocolate Box business. The feature is titled
The Chocolate Box
, and there are four bright pages of festival photos along with the feature. There are the chocolates, piled up in little pyramids beside the handpainted boxes that give the business its name. There is the bunting hanging from the treetops, the stalls, the chocolate cafe, the gypsy caravan, the crowds of people. There are Mum and Paddy, smiling into the camera, holding boxes of truffles.

And there we are, Honey, Coco, Cherry, Summer and me, dressed in our cute little chocolate fairy costumes, all brown velvet and golden-brown tutu skirts and little wings, standing together in the dappled sunlight. The tagline on the photo reads
The Chocolate Box Girls
.

‘Wow!’ I breathe. ‘It’s the national paper – not just the
Gazette
!’

‘We look great!’ Cherry says. ‘Like proper sisters!’

‘We are proper sisters,’ I tell her. ‘Definitely.’

It was only a few months ago, but in that picture we look happy, hopeful and together, in a way we really haven’t been since. Honey’s wavy golden hair is still waist-length, glinting in the light. Back then she still had Shay, of course – or thought she did. And Dad wasn’t living on the other side of the planet. It’s not just Honey either – Summer and I are grinning, leaning against each other. There were no fallouts, no secrets, and no broken promises between us back then.

‘It’s great publicity,’ Mum is saying. ‘And the write-up is just as good as the photos … it talks about the truffles being handmade, and the boxes handpainted. Best of all, it says they taste amazing!’

‘Well, they do!’ I shrug. ‘They’re awesome!’

Paddy finishes clearing up the broken plates and comes over to join us, his smile a mile wide.

‘Pure brilliant,’ he says in his soft Glaswegian accent. ‘The feature mentions it all – the B&B, the chocolate business – and lists all the websites too! The Chocolate Festival got the business off to a good start, but things have been
pretty quiet since then. This should give us the boost we really need.’

‘I hope so,’ Mum says, grinning. ‘The timing is perfect. This could make our Christmas!’

I’m relieved – I know that Mum and Paddy have been struggling with money. This could really help.

‘I thought those pictures were for the local newspaper, though,’ Cherry says, baffled. ‘The
Gazette
did a feature ages ago, didn’t they?’

‘The reporter mentioned that she’d like to pitch it to one of the Sunday papers,’ Mum recalls. ‘I didn’t expect anything would actually come of it, though! Can we cope, if we do have lots of orders?’

‘No worries,’ Paddy says. ‘We’ll do it.’

There’s a timid knock, and one of the B&B guests puts his head round the kitchen door.

‘Sorry to interrupt,’ he says. ‘It’s just that we’re still waiting for our bacon and eggs!’

Mum’s hands fly up to her face. ‘I dropped it!’ she admits. ‘It was the shock! I’m so sorry … I’ll be right with you.’

She runs over to the fridge and pulls out fresh supplies,
while Paddy shows the bemused guest the Sunday supplement magazine and sends him back into the guest breakfast room clutching it. By the time Mum has produced two more cooked breakfasts and a round of toast, Paddy has headed off to the village to buy more copies of the newspaper.

I take the guest breakfasts through – better late than never.

After that, business really does start to pick up. Orders flood in, by mail, by phone, by email. People stop us in the street and ask if we can do them a special box of truffles for a birthday or anniversary, and Paddy is spending long hours in the workshop making sure the orders are filled and ready to send out. We still have some handpainted boxes left over from the Chocolate Festival, but Mum is working on a new range for the Christmas orders.

Cherry and Honey get lots of comments at the high school, and people keep telling Honey she should be a model. She dumps Alex, the motorbike boy, for an arty Year Twelve lad who wants to photograph her for his portfolio. She has such a hectic social life that it’s starting to feel like she is one of the B&B guests, only not quite as friendly and much less likely to appear for breakfast. We hardly ever see her.

Even at Exmoor Park Middle School, Summer, Coco and I are minor celebrities, for a few days at least. We are not the Tanberry sisters any more – we are the Chocolate Box Girls, and there are lots of jokes about tutus and fairy wings.

The teachers get in on the act too, and Paddy sends in a big box of sample chocolates for the staffroom. By the end of the day we have taken seven new orders. Mr Wolfe orders a box for his girlfriend, which makes us giggle.

‘Even Mr Wolfe has a girlfriend,’ Millie says, shaking her head. ‘Unreal. Don’t you ever feel like life is passing you by?’

‘Er … no,’ I reply.

‘We should go to town on Saturday,’ Millie ploughs on. ‘All of us. You and me and Summer and Tia. It’d be cool. We could try on clothes and check out the make-up testers in Boots and hang out in the new cafe on the Esplanade. Loads of kids go in there, it’s supposed to be really cool. And you and Summer are kind of famous now, so I bet people would recognize you. Boys might come over and chat us up! Older boys, from the high school!’

One of the things I have always liked about Millie is her enthusiasm – whatever she’s into, she really goes for it,
whether it’s ballet, or Barbie dolls, or ponies, or vampire books. This whole boys thing is the same – but it’s starting to get a bit full-on.