Girl, (Nearly) 16: Absolute Torture! (14 page)

‘I was reading about that music festival thing in the paper,’ said Granny. ‘How many do they reckon are there? A hundred thousand?’

‘I don’t know. But they’re bound to meet. There’s loads of people from school going and they’ll all be texting one another.’

‘Well, even if they do meet,’ said Granny, ‘if this boy really likes you, he won’t go astray.’

‘Yes, but Flora is so tactlessly beautiful!’ growled Jess.

‘Everyone likes a pretty face,’ said Granny. ‘But boys can be scared of beautiful girls.’

‘Granny!’ said Jess. ‘You were supposed to say,
You’re heaps more beautiful than Flora anyway, dear
.’

‘Well, of course you are,’ said Granny. ‘But looks aren’t everything. You’ve got more charisma in your little finger than that Flora creature has in her whole body. And it’s charisma that counts, dear,’ she added, giving her most charismatic wink.

Jess felt immensely cheered by the news that she had charisma and Flora did not.

‘But, Granny,’ she went on miserably, ‘what if they do get together, in spite of everything?’

‘Then,’ said Granny, leaning in close and dropping her voice to a whisper, ‘we’ll hatch a fiendish plot to murder her, dear!’

After this Jess felt a bit better. She and Granny invented a game in which one player nominated a harmless household object, and the other had to invent a plan to murder Flora with it. It very pleasantly whiled away the rest of the afternoon. Jess’s favourite murder weapon was the cheese grater, but Granny preferred a large wooden spoon. It took much longer to achieve the desired result, but Granny found it richly satisfying.

Chapter 21

Next day they drove down to Penzance, at the very tip of England. At last they arrived at the ocean, vast and shimmering. The town, silhouetted on a hill, looked exotic. There were lots of boats moored in the marina, their masts dipping and bobbing.

Dear Fred
. Jess began another letter in her head. Later she would transfer it to paper.
We have arrived at the seaside at last. I am making urgent plans to jump ship and work my passage to Panama as a cabin boy with slightly gay eyelashes and a repulsive pout. Or maybe I shall reinvent myself as a mermaid
.

Although, knowing me, I shall get it the wrong way round and emerge with a fish’s head and bare human bum – the worst of both worlds.

As soon as I can establish contact with you via my mobile I shall walk on the beach, broadcasting the crash of the waves and the scream of the gulls – if you can hear them above the deafening noise of your precious music festival. How I wish I was there to ruin your fun.

Still, there were palm trees in the front garden of the B&B. Mum turned into the gateway and parked, luckily just avoiding contact with a low wall smothered in flowers.

‘Here we are,’ she said.

They piled out – quite stiffly, in Granny’s case, and went inside.

‘Hi there!’ They were greeted by a big man with a lot of red curly hair. ‘I’m Bernie Ackroyd! How’s the headache? Better, I hope?’ He shook hands all round, causing multiple fractures, and then insisted on carrying everybody’s bags up to their rooms, all in one trip.

‘I think he’s an Aussie!’ whispered Granny. ‘He’s got the twang!’

Jess hated the way her mum and her granny both commented on people they had just met, in a deafening stage whisper.

‘Granny! Button that lip!’ she hissed. She didn’t want to offend Bernie. They had to stay on the right side of a man whose grip would immobilise a crocodile.

Mum and Granny had a twin-bedded room at the front, painted a startling purple, and Jess had a double room at the back. The walls were the colour of blood to which a dash of mud had been added. It seemed Bernie’s colour sense was fairly primitive.

Jess didn’t mind. It was nice to have a whole double room to herself. She would be able to chuck her clothes everywhere. She could write her letters to Fred without attracting any impertinent enquiries. And once she’d bought some more credit, she could lie in bed and text him all night until he screamed for mercy.

She went back to Mum and Granny’s room to ask for some money to buy the phone credit. Bernie was still hanging about and chatting to Mum. In fact, he was sitting on the bed, which in Jess’s view was a diabolical liberty.

‘I used to be a sports teacher,’ he was saying, ‘but then I came down here and one thing led to another.’

‘How long have you been running the B&B?’ asked Mum with a nasty girlish smile. She looked like a twelve-year-old with a crush on the football coach.

‘Aw, a coupla years,’ said Bernie.

‘Do you run it on your own?’ asked Mum – almost as if she was trying to find out if he was
married
. Maybe she fancied him! Gross!

‘Ah, I get a couple of girls in to do the beds and serve the breakfasts,’ said Bernie. ‘But I do all the cooking! Will you be having dinner in tonight? I was planning a moussaka.’

‘Perfect!’ said Mum – strangely, as she had never been all that keen on moussaka before.

‘Well . . .’ said Bernie. ‘I’ll leave you to get settled in. Dinner’s at 7.30 if that’s OK? Here are the keys. There’s a front door key in case you want to paint the town red.’ And he actually winked at Mum, as he went out! Good Lord! As if he fancied her! How perfectly loathsome! Especially as Jess was planning to get her parents together again. She didn’t want Bernie to start intervening. He looked as if he could kill Dad with one light blow of his little finger.

‘What a nice man,’ said Mum, dancing with ridiculous happiness to the window. ‘And what a lovely view!’

My mother is revving up for a major indiscretion
, Jess continued her letter to Fred.
She is throwing herself at the enormous Australian guy who runs this joint. My poor dad doesn’t stand a chance. I’ve hatched a plot to bring them together again. But the Aussie is going to get in first with his steaming Greek delicacies and rugby songs. I have a terrible fear that I will wake up to find he has painted my mother red to match the back bedroom.

‘Mum!’ said Jess. ‘Please can I go and get some phone credit? I need to know if Flora’s OK.’

Mum gave Jess ten pounds and in minutes she had found her way to the main street.
Penzance is kind of quaint
, she told Fred in her secret letter,
with high old pavements. If I had any cred at all as a Jane Austen heroine I would hurl myself down a flight of crumbling old steps and then hover picturesquely between life and death for several weeks.

However, I have other plans. I can’t tell you how fabulous it is to be surrounded by merchandise after all those poignant graveyards, haunted ruins and remote farmhouses.

She dived into a shop and bought some credit, then walked back out on to the pavement and switched on her phone. Immediately she found a message waiting from Fred. Her heart jumped for joy. She hadn’t been able to communicate with him since he’d sent that awful text saying,
IT’S ROSIE YOU REALLY OUGHT TO WORRY ABOUT . . .

That was
days
ago. To a certain extent Jess just hadn’t replied because she was cross. And her phone had run out of credit –
twice
. So what had Fred got to say? His message had been sent more than twenty-four hours ago.

I WAIT AND WAIT AND WAIT AND WAIT AND WAIT AND WAIT TO HEAR FROM YOU. BUT NOTHING. MADAM, I AM SLAIN.

Jess rang him immediately, but his mobile was switched off. So she sent him a text instead.

SORRY, RAN OUT OF CREDIT. AM IN PENZANCE NOW. QUITE NEAR ST IVES. HOW’S EVERYTHING?

She managed not to add any jealous asides about Rosie or Flora. She kept hold of her phone, waiting for Fred’s reply, willing it to ring. While waiting for the longed-for vibration, she strolled down the street looking in all the shops.

There were some fabulous clothes, and then there was a bookshop where she spent half an hour, and then, right at the bottom of the street, she found a small shopping centre with a branch of the Body Shop in it. Re-
sult
! Jess hadn’t had a cosmetics fix since Dorchester, and that was days ago. She spent ages in there, trying on all sorts of different perfume.

You could get melon, coconut or grapefruit, but you couldn’t get essence of Fred. His skin smelt unique, like hot grass. At the thought of it her legs went weak. Oh, why didn’t he reply?

Fred’s mobile must be switched off. He would answer soon. She mustn’t get things out of proportion. Maybe she should text Flora. She sent Flora a brief message. After all, Flora might be able to throw some light on the situation.

But the whole afternoon just went on unrolling in silence. There wasn’t any message either from Flora or Fred. Again she tried to ring Fred on his mobile. It was switched off. Flora’s was switched off, too. This seemed, to Jess’s increasingly deranged mind, highly suspicious.

Eventually, she left a message on his voicemail.

‘Listen, Parsons,’ she said, her mind whirling, trying not to sound too cross or too needy, ‘your mum tells me you’re at Riverdene after all. I just want you to know that if you are, I’m going to kill you when we next meet, with the cutlery of your choice. Nah, have a great time. And, for goodness’ sake, text me.’

Chapter 22

‘Now, today the plan was to go to Mousehole,’ said Mum at breakfast. ‘To . . .’ and her voice dropped to a whisper, ‘
scatter the ashes
. Do you think you’re up to it, Granny?’

Never mind Granny
, thought Jess woefully.
Am I up to it?
She had spent a vile night of uneasy jealous dreams about Flora and Fred.