Caramel Hearts (24 page)

Chapter Forty-Five

One of Life's Cruel Games

It's past ten o'clock, but there's no sign of any bouncers, so I slip in unnoticed. The warmth envelops me like a hug. The music is loud and the lights are even brighter than they seemed from the street. Blue neon lines the bar and beautiful, well-dressed people lean in to shout into the ears of their friends. The room smells of pineapple and spirits. Feeling safe at last, I heave a sigh of relief. It's so busy, no one will notice me.

Looking around, I realize how different these people's lives must be. No one back home could afford this much designer gear. Not even Mad Dog, with her family always on the rob. Here, people drink wine or cocktails instead of gulping pints. Behind the bar, several attractive young men and women serve an endless sea of gem-coloured drinks. I spike my fringe, smooth my eyebrows and remove my coat. Feeling very self-conscious, I suddenly realize – I don't even know what my dad looks like. He could be here, now, right in front of me.

As I scan the room, I see a girl about the same age as me tucked in a corner. She looks at home in her red satin dress and knee-length boots, her hair pulled back into a high ponytail, which makes her cheekbones stand out. She's drinking coffee while typing into a MacBook Air.
For some reason, she looks familiar. I realize it's the girl from my dad's house – so I head straight over.

“Excuse me, I don't know if you remember me – I called at your house earlier. I was wondering – is Max around?”

Raising her eyebrows, the girl peers over her MacBook.

“Not yet. He's the owner, so he should be here soon – though you never can tell with him.” Realizing I'm not going away any time soon, she closes her MacBook. “I can try and call him if it's urgent. Who shall I say is asking after him?”

“His daughter, Olivia.”

The words feel weird as they spill out. The girl nearly chokes on her coffee, but quickly recovers.

“Daughter? Olivia, you say?”

She makes the call.

“Dad, you'd better come over. I have a surprise for you.”

My brain whirrs into overdrive. Did she call Max “Dad”? The girl hangs up and cocks her head to one side. I don't think she likes what she sees.

“So, you're one of my half-sisters. I'm Amber.”

She puts out her hand – challenging rather than friendly. I accept the handshake, my thoughts tumbling. Wasn't Amber the daughter of Mam's friend Rosa? Amber's smile fades. She looks irritated by my presence, like a kid who just received last year's craze as a birthday present.

“Here – sit down. Are you hungry?”

I nod, stuck for words.

“Wait here.”

Amber saunters off towards the bar. The next few minutes feel like hours. Half-sister? Harriet and I had guessed about the affair but we hadn't made
that
connection. Amber returns with lemonade and some thick,
spicy wedges with sour cream. Lemonade. A kid's drink. I guess she's marking her territory.

“Enjoy,” she says, opening her MacBook again.

I eat my food slowly, trying to look dignified and well bred, and I sip the lemonade. She doesn't look up again until a smooth, deep voice sounds behind me, making the hairs on my arms stand on end.

“Amber, what is it that couldn't wait till later? You know I hate surprises.”

It's him! I spin round, eyes wide.

“Meet your daughter – Olivia,” Amber says triumphantly, like she's somehow getting one up on her dad. Our dad.

I don't care. Nothing is going to ruin this.

Max isn't as handsome as I'd hoped. He's much older and more tired looking than I imagined. He has a really wide jaw – like me – sleek, greying, black hair and a half smile.

His reaction isn't what I expected either.

Instead of hugging me, he shuffles awkwardly. I take a step towards him, but he jumps back like I'm diseased or something. Brow furrowed, he keeps his distance, tousling his hair and looking around him, trying to find an excuse to escape.

“Dad? Mam said you'd got in touch so—”

“I only got in contact because… I didn't expect—” he says after a while. “Christ, you'd better come with me.”

My dad leads me through a purple, floor-length curtain. The area is VIP. Now we're getting somewhere! I wish she wouldn't, but Amber follows. Once inside, I still don't get the welcome I was hoping for. Dad puts all his energy into rubbing his stubbled chin.

“It's great to meet you… but how? Why? I mean – does your mother know you're here?”

“She only just told us where you were. Gave us your address. So I came to find you.”

There's plenty of time for revealing the bad bits when we know each other better.

“Is she on about the tart you were with before Mam?” asks Amber.

The bitterness takes me by surprise. What does she have against Mam? Dad tries shooing Amber away, but she stands her ground. He smiles weakly.

“I really don't know what to say, Olivia. Where are you staying? It's late and I've got to work – maybe we could meet up tomorrow when it's had time to sink in?”

“I'm not staying anywhere. I've come to stay with you!” I say.

Dad reaches his arm around Amber and I feel like screaming,
Where's my hug, you selfish bastard? The one I've been waiting for all my life?
Amber's pretty mouth twists into a weird shape – like she's chewing on something sour. Her expression reminds me of Mad Dog.

“I can't… I mean – as you can see, I've already got my hands full with this one.”

“But…”

“Olivia, I'm a busy man. You should get straight back on the bus or train and go home to your mother. Or maybe a hotel for the night. I'll get one of my staff to book you in somewhere and take you there…”

“But I've seen your place – it's huge! Just for one night? Please? I promise we'll get on.”

“She's not staying with us,” says Amber. Then she switches to a puppy-dog voice. “Is she?”

She's like Mad Dog all right. Got my dad twisted around her little finger.

“We just lost Rosa a few months ago – breast cancer – and we're… well, we're not ready for any big upheavals. I'm sorry – that's why I contacted your mum, to tell her – but we just… we can't.”

Amber's mournful look turns icy.

“Did you think you could just turn up and play happy families?” she says.

I understand she must be upset – but it's not my fault her mam died. Me staying for a night won't make things any worse. Ignoring the comment, I turn to my dad.

“Sorry, kid,” he says, glancing back towards the curtain. “Nothing personal – it's just bad timing. Maybe in a few months or something… I have to mind my own little family right now. We only have each other. One of life's cruel games.”

He pulls Amber closer and she pretends to squirm away, embarrassed. But I can see it's an act. She's delighted to get one up on me. She's no half-sister of mine.

“But you're my dad. We're family too.”

What was it the old letter said? “
You and the girls will always have a home with me
.” He can't turn me away, surely. Not when I've come all this way. When I'm his blood.

Breaking free from Amber, Max rubs his hands through his hair – it's starting to look a bit greasy now – and chews his lip. Just as he looks like he's about to cave in, Amber rushes to his side and starts to cry. Manipulative cow. Max strokes her hair gently.

“I'm sorry, Olivia… Look, I'll call your mother and make arrangements. I can drive you to the station or hotel myself if you like. Have you ever stayed in a five-star hotel? Here, take this for spending, you can treat yourself…”

He flicks through his wallet and holds out two £50 notes. I snatch the money, screw it up and throw it on the floor.

“I hate you!” I cry. “I should never have come.”

Pushing past them, I run through to the busy bar, bumping into people along the way.

“Olivia, wait!”

But I keep running. Out in the street, I hide behind a parked car, the cold night air pinching at my face. My heart quickens as Dad races out, pulling at his face as he searches frantically in every direction. I want to go to him – maybe his reaction will be warmer this time – but something keeps me rooted to the spot.

A longing for home.

There's no chance of reconciliation with Dad, no chance of starting a new life in London – and it's time to call Mam.

When I pull out my phone, the screen is dead. I try switching it on, but the battery's gone. I scrabble around for my charger – I can swallow my pride long enough to get enough juice for a call – but it's nowhere to be found. Spilling my belongings onto the pavement, I stare into my empty rucksack. I forgot to pack it!

Now I'm completely stuck. Why didn't I take Dad's money? There's no way I'm going back just to make a show of myself in front of Amber. And I'm not giving Dad the chance to turn me away again.

Pulling up my hood, I stomp angrily into the night-time streets of London, back towards Greenwich village centre, my teeth gritted and jaw set. I glare at the first person that passes me, to make them look away. A fluttering feeling rises in my chest at the victory.

Chapter Forty-Six

Stripped Bare, Like Skeletons

The anger soon wears off and I stop in my tracks, wondering where to go next. I don't fancy going to the bus station – it's too far away and means passing through some pretty dodgy areas, even by Egerton standards. The streets are still busy and there are plenty of bars open, but the bouncers are out in force and I can't sneak in. Tiredness forces cold into my limbs and I feel like I'm freezing from the inside out. Rubbish scampers down the street, crackling off lampposts and bins, and making me jumpy. But I'm determined to keep walking until I've figured out my next move. The streets of Greenwich turn into a shadowy, unwelcoming maze. Still heaving with people, their laughter and chatter adds to my loneliness and worry.

What was I thinking? Suddenly, running away doesn't seem such a smart idea.

As 2 a.m. arrives, most places lock up for the night, and fewer people wander the streets. Straggly foxes roam free as dogs – confident, yet wary. My options dwindle and, as the misery of my situation sinks in, I plonk myself on a bench and try to look inconspicuous as homeward-bound drunks lumber down the street. They're too busy feasting on hot chips, burgers, kebabs and hotdogs to notice me
anyway. I huddle in my coat, brain throbbing, as I try to figure out what to do. I never thought I'd miss anything about Egerton, but right now, I'd love nothing more than to wander up the path leading up to our front door and climb the stairs to my warm bed. Why did I put Mam through this – and so soon after returning home? Sarah's right. I'm out of control. And I've gone too far this time.

Wiggling my legs and stamping my feet to keep warm, I decide the best thing to do is to keep moving. It wouldn't be safe to sleep on the streets, and I might freeze to death. In the morning, I'll locate a mobile phone shop and get them to charge my phone. I'll call home, then catch a return coach. The thought of it makes me shudder. Harriet will be on her way to uni, so I'll have to deal with Mam alone. And there's no telling what state she'll be in, thanks to me.

As I dive into my bag looking for extra clothes, I'm confronted with the stolen bag. Angrily, I yank it out and put it on my shoulder, determined to get rid of it once and for all. If Sarah or Jack say anything, I'll just deny it – there'll be no proof.

A rowdy group of girls in short dresses and heels clatter past, squealing unintelligibly as they tuck into hot bagels. I struggle to fight back the tears, but then I cop on and realize there must be a bakery nearby, busily preparing tomorrow's bread and cakes, with hot ovens churning out heat. If I could hide out there for the night, I wouldn't have to wander the streets. It would be nice and cosy, and I could steal some breakfast too.

Jumping from the bench, I head to where the high-heeled girls just came from. Soon, I hit the market, but now the stalls are stripped bare, like skeletons. As I search
the lanes leading from the square, I mull over the trail of bad decisions I've made recently. Finding my dad now feels like a totally stupid idea. It hasn't got me anywhere – except in deeper trouble. It'll tip Mam over the edge, and I'll end up in care for sure. But first, I'll have to face the bigger mess I've created.

I spy a flickering light striking the wall in the next alleyway, and peep round the corner. It's a faulty streetlight, but next to it is a sign: Stan's Bakery.

The bakery windows glow orange, like a sunrise. Inside, people scurry about unloading huge trays of golden, crusty loaves and plaited pretzels. I watch as a chubby, red-faced man with thick lips wipes at his forehead under his white hat. A short, muscular, Jamaican woman with tightly woven braids moves quickly behind him, tidying up any mess he makes. I sneak past the front door unnoticed, and search for a back entrance. There isn't one, and the shop is flanked by spiked green railings. There's no way in.

Frustrated, I remove the money from the purse and, returning the purse to the bag, fling the whole thing over the railings. It lands with a thud and I'm just about to walk away when something clatters and rolls, and something else skids across the ground. An image of Mrs Snelling's son appears in my mind. What about the photo? I imagine rain pouring down, the smiling face of Simon Snelling blistering and lifting away from the paper, his face erased for ever. I can't leave it there, so I climb the fence to retrieve the photo. Somehow, I'll get it back to Mrs Snelling – drop it in the dinner hall, maybe, so it can be found and returned.

My Converse fit perfectly between the spikes after all – making it easy for me to haul myself up and over.
Within seconds, I'm inside the bakery yard. Leaving the brightness of the shop behind, my eyes take time to adjust to the darkness. The yard is filled with delivery boxes, recycling bins and oversized trolleys for bread trays. The ventilator hums loudly as it battles to cool the oven-filled kitchen. I pick up the bag, locate the purse, but not whatever it was that rolled – despite searching round every trolley and behind every bin. Finally, I give up – I have what's important. Stuffing the wallet in my rucksack, and the bag under one of the bins, I look for somewhere suitable to rest.

Hot steam blows from vents into the night air, and I eventually settle behind a pile of delivery boxes, directly in the ventilator's path. Sitting on my bag to keep my bum off the cold floor, I let the heat warm my bones, and begin to feel safe. No one will find me here. Huddling up, trying not to think about my dad's cold reaction, my eyelids droop. I think about baking “Caramel Hearts” with Mam and wonder:
Never mind Mam's heart – what about melting my own?