How Kirsty Jenkins Stole the Elephant (5 page)

Wednesday

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Chapter 10

‘Juice?' Angela said. She put a glass of pink grapefruit crush down on a coaster in front of Kirsty. The juice was the same colour as Angela's painted fingernails.

‘Thanks,' Kirsty whispered. She took a sip. It was so sharp it stung her mouth. Her eyes watered as she forced it down.

‘Right.' Angela swished into one of the leather chairs that stood like sentries around the dining table. ‘Ben has told me all about your little problem. Your dad putting his head in the sand again, is he?'

Kirsty frowned but didn't say anything. Ben looked down at his hands, clamped in his lap.

Angela smiled a TV presenter smile at them both. ‘My dears, you should have come to me in the first place. Your father doesn't like to rock the boat. If you want to keep your grandad's allotment, you need someone effective on your side. Darlings, I've been getting my own way for years now. I'm a professional!' Angela laughed, a tinkly sound like a wind chime.

Ben seemed to curl deeper into his chair. Kirsty sat up straighter. This was really interesting – an adult on her side might be just what she needed! ‘Do you really think you can help?' Kirsty asked.

Angela waved her arm in the air, as though she were bashing aside any problems. ‘Of course I can help! As I understand it, the rotten council won't let you take the allotment on because you're too young. Is that it?'

Kirsty nodded her head slowly; that was mostly it.

‘Well, dear, you need to start a campaign to force the council to change their mind, to bow to public pressure.'

‘We held a demonstration,' Kirsty said, ‘but it didn't work. We thought about a petition?'

‘A petition? How ridiculous. No, dear, this isn't the nineties. Petitions run by some miserable old hag in the shopping centre don't cut it. What you need is a media campaign. You need to get headlines. “Council Caught in Kidz' Carrot Crisis”, that sort of thing. We need to get some pictures of you looking all sad, with a trowel, some trees and whatnot in the background. You need to issue a press release, perhaps even start a website. Oh yes, you'll definitely need a website – givemeagarden.com, kidzforfreedom.org, something like that –'

‘Mum,' Ben interrupted. ‘Mum, isn't that going a bit far?'

Angela stared at him, as though he had spoken in Latin. ‘A bit far? Sweet pea, you can never go too far with a publicity campaign. Do you remember when I opened my first salon and I had that truck driving around town with that enormous wig on top of it? People were talking about it for weeks afterwards.'

‘Yes,' Ben sighed. ‘I know.'

‘Or do you remember that time when I started doing glamorous nails and I had the local paper put fake fingernails in every copy to advertise it?'

Ben just nodded silently. The excitement that Kirsty had been feeling began to knot in her stomach. She remembered too well how upset Ben had been. Hundreds of people had called the paper to complain when loose fingernails dropped out of their morning paper and plopped into their cornflakes. Trails of broken nails followed paper boys down the streets. Newsagents had been finding fingernails on their floors for weeks afterwards. Ben had nearly died of shame.

‘What we need is to think of a great stunt for you. Grab people's attention. A gimmick. How about a gardening marathon? Do you think you could dig for twenty-four hours?' Angela said.

A digging marathon? There was no way she could dig for that long! It would kill her! Kirsty bit her lip, then said, ‘No, I don't think my mum would let me.'

‘Hmm. Never mind, I'm sure we'll think of something,' Angela said. ‘We can start with the photos. I'll call a photographer friend of mine. I can make you up to look a bit sad, you know – Oliver-Twist-meets-abandoned-puppy, that sort of thing. Wait here, I'll just go and make a phone call.'

Angela got up from her chair and swept out of the room with all her jewellery jangling.

‘Wow,' Kirsty whispered.

‘I know,' said Ben. ‘I'm sorry.'

‘What did she say she was going to do to me? Oliver Twist's puppy?'

‘I have no idea. I should have just said no. I shouldn't have said anything to her in the first place. This is all my fault.'

Kirsty smiled at him. ‘Yes. It probably is. But perhaps it will work? She seems to know what she's doing. I quite fancy the make-up bit anyway.'

‘You would. I don't know. Perhaps she does want to help. But she might just want to get her salon in the newspapers. I bet she gets the photographs done with the shop in the background. I'm really sorry.' Ben's voice fell to a whisper.

‘It can't be that bad,' Kirsty grinned.

A rustle of silk and the clanking of metal told them that Angela was back. She swung into the room, grinning like a cat in a cream factory. ‘Well, dears, that's all sorted. Jermaine will meet us at the salon in twenty minutes. Chop-chop, we haven't got all day. Grab your coats. We've got a campaign to launch!'

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Chapter 11

Inside the salon, Kirsty recognised the sharp tang wafting from the dyes and bleaches, overlaid with the heavy smell of lilies, which were dripping pollen on to the purple reception desk. It was exciting. Ben, who had seen the salon at least three thousand times more than he wanted to, went straight to sit in a window seat, with his back turned towards his mother. He took out his mobile phone and jabbed at the buttons.

‘OK, Kirsty, sweet pea.' Angela said. ‘I'm going to do your face a bit. Sit yourself down over there.' She pointed to one of the purple salon chairs parked in front of a full-length mirror. Kirsty hoisted herself up into the seat. Her feet dangled miles from the floor, even when she stretched out her toes. She could see them in the mirror. Her dusty trainers looked funny against the silver and purple of the salon.

‘OK, sweetheart, this won't take long.'

Kirsty closed her eyes as Angela whipped a sponge over her face. It was covered in powder that went straight up her nose and into her throat. She struggled to hold in a sneeze-cough.

‘This just takes away any nasty shine that would show up on camera. Keep your eyes closed. Good!' Angela said.

Kirsty felt a soft brush flick over her eyelids again and again.

‘Open wide.'

Kirsty obligingly opened her mouth as though she were saying ‘ah'. She heard Angela giggle. Wet, sloppy-feeling stuff was rubbed on to her lips.

‘OK, open your eyes. This will give them sparkle.'

Kirsty lifted her lids to see a pipette like the ones they sometimes used in Science hovering in front of her eyes. Angela squeezed, and drops flew out of the pipette on to Kirsty's eyeball. She yelped.

‘Don't worry, it's just eye drops. You look lovely.'

Kirsty's eyes slowly came back into focus as she blinked away the drops. She looked at herself in the mirror and gasped.

‘Lovely, isn't it?' Angela said.

Kirsty's skin was pale. Her eyes peered out at her from the centre of gloomy black smears. Her lips had been painted ruby red. She felt a bit panicky all of a sudden. She looked like a panda who'd chewed a lipstick.

‘Jermaine will be here soon. We'll get your story on the front page of the paper with you looking so touching!'

Kirsty slid out of her chair slowly. ‘Is this how Oliver's puppy looked?' she said uncertainly.

Suddenly, the door to the salon sprang open. Dawn stepped in and looked around. Then she put her hands on her hips; her face was rigid with anger.

‘Mum,' Dawn said. ‘Why does Kirsty look like the bride of Dracula?'

Angela smiled warmly at her daughter. She spread her arms, waving Dawn into the salon. ‘Sweetheart, how lovely. I wasn't expecting to see you here. Did I leave you a note? I don't remember.'

Dawn shook her head. ‘No, you didn't. There was no sign of either of you when I got home. The house was empty, there was nothing for tea – then he texted.' Dawn jabbed her finger at Ben. ‘He said I had to get down here quick to save Kirsty. Will someone please tell me what's going on?'

Kirsty's heart leapt in her chest. She blew a quick kiss in Ben's direction. Her lips left a greasy red smear on her fingers.

‘What's wrong with Kirsty's face? She looks like she's been putting make-up on in the dark,' Dawn said.

‘Don't be silly, darling. She looks perfect. Apart from that little smear there. Soon fix that.' Angela whipped a sponge over Kirsty's chin.

‘Bit early for Halloween, isn't it?'

‘Dawn!' Angela said sharply. ‘You know how cruel the camera can be unless you're made up properly.'

Kirsty thought about the camera. Her stomach lurched in fear. She caught Dawn's eye and willed her to help.
Please, Dawn, please, Dawn
, she whispered silently, over and over again.

‘What camera?' Dawn asked. Her voice was as cold and hard as the chrome chandeliers that hung from the salon ceiling.

‘Kirsty's going to be in the paper,' Angela said.

‘Mum. One last time, what is going on?'

‘Oh dear, you sound so serious. All that's happening is that I am helping little Kirsty get a bit of publicity, bring her plight to the world, that sort of thing.'

‘What plight?'

‘Well, to keep your grandad's allotment, of course. We're starting the campaign right here, right now. Well, in about ten minutes, I should think. Jermaine is usually a little bit late.'

Kirsty looked at Dawn. Dawn looked back. Kirsty couldn't tell what she was thinking. Would she help? Or would she just laugh? Kirsty bit her lip; she could taste the greasy lipstick on her teeth.

Dawn seemed to make up her mind. ‘Kirsty,' she said. ‘Get that stuff off your face. Ben, get your coat on. Mum, get a grip.'

Brilliant! Kirsty leaped up from the chair and ran to the sink. She turned on the shower attachment and soaked the front of her jumper, but managed to get most of the make-up off.

‘But what –' Angela stuttered. ‘Dawnie, what's the matter?'

‘Mum,' Dawn said. ‘I'm sure that Kirsty appreciates your help. Oh wait, no, actually, I don't suppose she does. So stop helping.'

Kirsty came away from the sink dripping water and slimy gunk. She turned to Angela. ‘Mrs Jenkins, thank you very much for your help, but Dawn's right. This is something I need to do by myself.'

Ben came and stood next to her. ‘No,' he said. ‘Not by yourself. Me and Dawn will help.'

Kirsty grinned. ‘Brilliant!'