Signs of Love: Stupid Cupid
Read Signs of Love: Stupid Cupid Online
Authors: Melody James
Other books in the
Signs of Love
series:
Love Match
First published in Great Britain in 2012 by Simon and Schuster UK Ltd
A CBS COMPANY
Copyright © HotHouse Fiction Limited 2012
This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.
No reproduction without permission.
All rights reserved.
The right of Melody James to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act,
1988.
Simon & Schuster UK Ltd
1st Floor, 222 Gray’s Inn Road
London
WC1X 8HB
Simon & Schuster Australia, Sydney
Simon & Schuster India, New Delhi
A CIP catalogue record for this book
is available from the British Library.
PB ISBN 978-0-85707-324-2
eBook ISBN 978-0-85707-325-9
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to
actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY
www.simonandschuster.co.uk
www.simonandschuster.com.au
www.signs-of-love.co.uk
With thanks to Kate Cary
‘This is the worst dilemma ever!’ Treacle drops her book bag on to my bedroom floor and starts pacing up and down. ‘Do I go fashionista or frump?’
I flip on the light to banish the after-school gloom. ‘Just wear something comfortable.’ I start emptying homework from bag to bed, acting casual. Treacle has no idea that I have a
surprise for her hidden in my wardrobe. I tighten my lips to stop a smile escaping.
‘
Comfortable?
’ Treacle winds a strand of her glossy black hair round a frantic finger. ‘For me? Or Jeff? Or
them
?’
‘
Them
’ are Jeff’s parents. Treacle’s been invited to their house for tea. It will be her first meeting with Jeff’s ancestors and she’s not nervous,
she’s cup-final-at-Wembley
terrified
.
‘You must have
somethin
g suitable,’ I reason calmly.
Treacle stops mid-pace. ‘How do I know what’s
suitable
?’ she squawks. ‘I’ve never
met
them! Their idea of
suitable
might be corsets and a
tiara.’
‘Have you asked Jeff?’
Treacle’s fast-breathing. ‘He just says “be yourself”.’ She starts fanning her eyes with hummingbird hands. She’s welling up. ‘But I have no idea who
“myself” is!’
‘You’re
Treacle
!’ I throw my arms round her. In the month since she started dating Jeff, my best friend has embraced her inner girl like a jackpot winner embracing a
quiz show host. She’s changed from hardcore footballer to Disney princess – but she still carries a pair of muddy football boots in her backpack and she’s only a changing room
away from her soccer jersey and a pair of stinking sports socks. I squeeze her harder. ‘And that means you’re fabulous and Jeff is lucky to have you as a girlfriend.’
‘Really?’ She looks at me with hopeful puppy-dog eyes.
‘Really.’ I nod decisively and head for my wardrobe. The smile’s back on my lips, pushing the corners of my mouth wide as I reach through the crush of clothes and drag out a
hanger.
A neat, tweed suit hangs from it like knitted moss. Pale green, knee-length, gold buttons, square jacket. It is
the
perfect meet-the-parents ensemble. I had to fight off a gaggle of
pension-book fashionistas to grab this outfit in Oxfam.
‘Ta-da!’ I hold it up for Treacle to admire. ‘As soon as I saw it in the charity shop, I thought of your visit with Jeff’s old folk!’
Treacle’s mouth is open. She must be getting the full granny-aroma that’s wafting from the tweed.
‘Don’t worry,’ I reassure her. ‘The lady behind the counter said it’s been dry-cleaned and that a splash of perfume and fresh air will blow away the
smell.’
‘I-I don’t know what to say,’ Treacle stammers.
‘Try it on.’ I’m picking up a vibe that tells me Treacle’s not that impressed by my carefully chosen outfit, but that’s OK. We’re trying to dress her for
parents
, not a rave.
Gingerly, Treacle takes the suit and lays it on my bed. As she peels off her school jumper and slips into the jacket, I duck out on to the landing and call down the stairs. ‘Any crisps,
Mum?’
Mum’s chatting with my brother Ben in the kitchen. I can hear them laughing. Ben has cystic fibrosis and last month a dark cloud almost crushed our family when he was admitted to hospital
fighting for every breath. He’s OK now, thank goodness, and it’s wall to wall sunshine most days.
‘Crisps?’ Mum echoes up the stairs. ‘Hold on.’
A minute later, Ben appears at the foot of the stairs with a tray loaded with crisps, sandwiches and two glasses of milk.
I grin at him as he carries them carefully upstairs. Ben’s seven years old and still pleased when he gets the chance to show how grown up and responsible he can be.
‘Thanks, Ben.’ I take the tray from him when he gets to the top. ‘I appreciate it.’ I plant a sloppy kiss on his head.
He shakes me off and gallops downstairs. I love it when he seems like a totally normal brother – like he’s not actually ill and doesn’t need heaps of physiotherapy to keep his
lungs gunk-free, or medicine to fight off the constant threat of infection.
‘Thanks, Mum!’ I yell over the banister and barge back into the bedroom, the tray heavy in my hands.
Treacle’s standing, neat as a pin in the pale green suit. ‘The plan is to
meet
Jeff’s mum,’ she says accusingly, ‘not
be
her!’
She does look mumsy; like a mini-politician. If I pinned a rosette to the sharp-cut collar, she’d probably win the next local election.
I slide the tray on to my desk. ‘It’s not bad,’ I lie. ‘OK, so it swallows your shape a bit—’
‘Swallows my shape
a bit
?’ Treacle’s eyes pop. ‘My waist has disappeared and I have
armpit
lumps. Who has armpit lumps? And the colour – the colour .
. .’ She runs out of words.
I circle her. ‘It
is
kind of more cabbagey than I thought.’ I don’t tell her the colour of the tweed is highlighting every greenish tone in her smooth olive skin.
‘I look like a toad!’ Treacle stares in dismay at the mirror.
‘But a well-brought-up, respectable toad,’ I encourage.
Treacle cracks a smile.
‘The sort of toad that parents would approve of,’ I press.
‘It
is
smart,’ she concedes. ‘I bet Georgina Robyn-Earle dresses like this on the weekends.’
G R-E is a Year Twelve. She’s got her own pony and skis every Easter in the Pyrenees.
‘Mrs Simpson.’ Treacle fixes me with a mischievous look as she pretends I’m Jeff’s mum. ‘I’ve brought you some jam.’ As she holds out an imaginary jar
for me to take, she slips into a plummy lisp. ‘Mummy’s got so many gooseberries this year she doesn’t know what to do with them.’
I take the invisible jam, joining in the game. ‘Oh, Treacle, dear. How kind. It’s so lovely to meet you. When Jeff said he was bringing home his girlfriend, I was frightened
you’d be one of those ravers you see so much of on the television.’
Treacle widens her eyes. ‘Oh, gosh no. I’ve never raved in my life. Nor do I intend to.’
‘You’re not one of those festival types?’ I ask suspiciously. ‘You don’t spend the summer in a tent with your hair in dreadlocks, do you?’
‘Sometimes we take a picnic to the gymkhana.’ Treacle’s holding back a giggle. I can see it in her eyes. ‘There’s nothing better than a potted crab sandwich in the
back of the Land Rover.’ She lifts a wilting hand and crosses to the bed on the balls of her feet, like Cinderella tiptoeing in glass slippers. I swallow back a squawk of laughter as she goes
on. ‘Last year at Ascot, Daddy forgot the icebox and Mummy had to drink warm gin from a teacup.’
‘Watch out, dear!’ As Treacle lowers herself daintily on to the bed, I dive and grab a pillow from behind her. ‘You’ll squash the Chihuahua.’ I cradle the
pillow-pooch in my arms. ‘Dear little Bubbles. He’s still recovering from when Jeff mistook him for a football and booted him over the fence.’ I stroke the pillow lovingly,
fighting back giggles. ‘I think Jeff was practising goal kicks because poor Bubbles flew over three gardens before he landed in the Robinson’s swimming pool.’
‘Noooo!’ Treacle explodes with laughter and slides off the bed with a thump. She clutches her sides helplessly. ‘Stop!’
‘Poor Bubby!’ Hooting, I collapse beside her, the image of a low-flying Chihuahua fixed in my head.
As the giggles slowly ease, an idea sparks in my brain. ‘Come on!’ I sit up and tug her arm. ‘Let’s try it properly.’
‘What?’ Treacle looks puzzled. ‘Booting a chihuahua?’
‘No, idiot! Role-play! It’ll give you chance to practise. No jokes this time. I’ll pretend to be Jeff’s mum.’
Treacle gives a nervous frown.
‘Don’t worry,’ I reassure her. ‘I’ll be gentle.’ I scramble to my feet and straighten my skirt. ‘Treacle dear.’ I hold out a hand. ‘How
lovely to meet you. Jeff’s talked about nothing else these past few weeks.’
‘Really?’ Treacle gets to her feet and tentatively takes my hand.
I shake it heartily ‘Absolutely! It’s been “Treacle this, Treacle that” for weeks. Do you mind me calling you Treacle or would you rather I called you Tracy?’
‘Um . . . er . . .’ Treacle’s eyes cloud with confusion.
‘Tell her Treacle’s fine,’ I hiss, dropping out of character for a second.
‘T-Treacle’s fine,’ she stammers.
‘Good. Lovely. You can call me Mary.’
Treacle blinks. ‘Is that her name?’
‘It is now,’ I answer briskly. ‘Come and sit down.’ I pat the bed and wait till Treacle takes a seat. Then I head for the tray. ‘Would you like some milk,
Treacle?’ I lift a glass from the tray and offer it to her.