This Way to Paradise (3 page)

‘Wow,' said Kate as she flipped through the paintings in the folder leaning up against the wall opposite my bed. ‘Who did these?'

‘Oh. Me.'

‘They're fantastic, India Jane. I never knew you were so good at art.'

‘Oh . . . thanks. They're not really that good – I prefer doing people.'

There were five paintings. All landscapes. The first was a hotel by Lake Picola, Udaipur in India. The second a palazzo in Venice. Third was a beach house in St Lucia in the Caribbean, fourth a villa in Essaouira in Morocco and last, the castle in Ireland. They were the five places I'd lived since I was born. For
my art project last year, we were asked to paint where we lived. Most people painted one place, two at the most, mainly grey scenes depicting a typical Irish house. Mine looked like a display in a travel agent's. Erin made copies for her bedroom wall to join her poster of James Dean.‘To aspire to,' she said. One of her goals in life is to travel. All I've ever wanted is to stay in one place and have a proper home.

‘Hey, don't be modest,' said Kate.‘They're great. You've got to put them up on the wall. I wish I was good at art. I wish I was good at anything. I am, like, so totally dreading my exam results. Mum's going to blow a fuse if I haven't done well.'

‘She'll be in Greece when they come through, won't she?'

Kate mock strangled herself.‘Yeah, but the wrath of the Killer Mom can be felt anywhere on the planet. I am so happy that you guys have moved in with us. If you hadn't, she'd have made me go with her like last summer and the one before, but thanks to your mum and dad, responsible adults and all that —'

‘Hardly,' I interrupted.

‘Well, don't tell Mum that. She's cool with them being around to keep an eye on me so to speak, which means I can stay and hang out with my mates.'

‘I'd have thought you'd have liked the idea of a summer in Greece.'

Kate shook her head. ‘Nah. Not my scene. Been there, done that. I like London.'

‘Me too.'

This morning was the first time that I'd seen my cousin properly since we'd arrived in London three days ago, as she'd always been out late or in a hurry to get somewhere. At last, she'd come up to my room for ‘a nose' as she said. She'd stayed over with a mate of hers in Chelsea last night and was well in the doghouse with her mum, who was leaving for Greece later in the day. Her absence meant that they didn't have much time together before Aunt Sarah left (which I reckoned was exactly what Kate intended). I liked Kate a lot. At seventeen, she's a couple of years older than me and is way cool. She has the look of a ballet dancer, tall and lean with not an ounce of fat on her although she never exercises and claims that she is totally unfit. She paints her nails in electric-blue glitter polish, dresses only in black, and she wears the most fab pair of Prada sunglasses when she's out, and sometimes even when she's in, much to her mother's annoyance. They seem to have been cross with each other since as far back as I can remember. Kate reckons that the reason is because she looks like her dad and is a constant reminder of him – something that her mum doesn't want, since they split up when Kate was eight. Aunt Sarah was forever complaining that Kate should wear ‘some colour'. She bought her the most gorgeous stuff from Harvey Nichols in Knightsbridge as an end of her exams present, but Kate just turned her nose up and pronounced the clothes as ‘too girlie'. I wouldn't have. I think Aunt Sarah has fab taste, but Kate wouldn't back down.

She sat at my dressing table, picked up one of my combs and pulled her long dark hair back up into it. As she did so, I noticed that she had a lovebite on the side of her neck.

‘Oh Christ,' she sighed as she looked at it in the mirror. ‘I'll kill that Jamie Morris. Is it really noticeable?'

I nodded.

‘Got any cover-up?'

‘For spots.'

‘That'll do.'

‘In the left-hand drawer.'

Kate pulled open the drawer and found my concealer.‘Thanks,' she said as she applied it and then let her hair out of the clip so that it fell loosely around her shoulders again.‘You settled in OK?'

‘Yeah.'

I'd spent the last few days unpacking and already my room looked like home. I'd put my aquamarine velvet throw over the bed with a couple of the sequined indigo cushions that Mum had got years ago in a market in Goa. Over the rail, at the top of the window, I'd hung a turquoise sari (another Goa purchase) and, overall, the colours went beautifully with the blue Aunt Sarah had chosen for the walls. Lastly, I'd put the Venetian glass mirror that Mum and Dad got me one birthday on the dressing table then draped all my beads and necklaces over one corner.

Kate got up, pulled a packet of Marlboro Lights out of her jean pockets, knelt on my bed to open the window and then lit up a cigarette.

‘Want one?' she asked.

I shook my head. I'd tried smoking with Erin at a Christmas party last year. Both of us thought they tasted foul, and mine made my head swim and I felt like I was going to throw up. Later that same evening, Erin got off with Scott Malone. Just as they started snogging, he backed off and said he didn't like kissing girls who smoked as it made their mouths sour. Erin was mortified and tried to tell him that she wasn't really a smoker but he said ‘yeah, right' and went and got off with Tracey Ingram. Neither of us tried fags again after that.

As she smoked her cigarette, Kate looked at the bedside cabinet where I'd put my two framed photos. I'd carried them over in my hand luggage on the plane so that the glass didn't break. One showed the family sitting round the table on the terrace at Grannie Ruspoli's, when we were together last year in Italy for Dad's fiftieth birthday. Ethan and Lewis take after Dad: handsome with a mane of wild dark hair, olive skin and amber eyes. Dylan is more like Mum and has her pale English complexion and fine features. I'm a mixture of Mum and Dad. I have olive skin like him, his amber eyes and chesnut red hair, which is a couple of shades darker than Mum's. When I was little, I was a total Daddy's girl. I adored him and followed him everywhere and, if he ever went out, I'd wait by the door like a faithful puppy until he returned. Of course I grew out of that ages ago, and these days we clash probably more than anyone else in the family. I'm not his obedient little pet any more. It
annoys me the way he always wants, and gets, his own way about everything and Mum just goes along with it like she has no opinion of her own. My brothers let him have his own way too. He's their hero. Dad calls me Cinnamon Girl because of my colouring. He got the expression from a song back in the sixties by Neil Young. For my birthday every year, Mum makes a special perfume from cinnamon oil and a few other ingredients that I don't know (she won't tell as she says it is her secret formula). It smells totally amazing – warm and spicy – and, when I wear it, people always ask where they can get some.

‘Your mum and dad look beautiful in the photo,' said Kate, ‘like a prince and princess from a fairy story. Mind you, your whole family are lookers. You all have the same fabulous heartshaped faces. Seems your mum and dad have passed on the best of their looks combined.'

What a lovely thing to say,
I thought as I nodded. Mum and Dad were always telling me that I was
bella,
beautiful, but then, being my parents, they're biased. Not many other people have said anything about my looks, so it was really nice to hear it from someone like Kate.

‘Your dad is a prince, isn't he?

‘Almost. He's a count. Dad doesn't use his title though. He says that, when people hear that he is a count, they expect him to be rich, which he isn't so, in order to avoid explanations, he simply doesn't tell anyone.'

‘So what happened to the family dosh?'

‘One of his ancestors gambled it away so that all the family have left is the title.'

‘Shame,' said Kate, then she picked up the second photo of Erin and me on the school trip.‘Whose the mad girl in the pic?'

I laughed. ‘Erin,' I said, as we heard the sound of the doorbell. ‘She's my mate back in Ireland.'

‘She looks like a laugh,' said Kate.

‘She was. Is. The photo doesn't do her justice. We were messing around. She's really very pretty.' The doorbell rang again.

‘Someone downstairs will get it,' said Kate, who continued smoking and poking around my room.

A few minutes later, the bell rang again.

‘Honestly,' said Kate. ‘No one ever answers the door in this place. Or the phone.'

I went over to the window and peered out to see if I could see anyone. It was raining outside and whoever it was downstairs was hidden under an umbrella.‘I guess one of us could go,' I said.

‘Why should we when we're up here at the top of the house and they're down there on the ground?'

‘Actually, I think Mum and Dylan have gone out shopping,' I said. ‘And Dad was going to see an old friend of his about some work and er . . . your mum's taking a shower.'

Kate shrugged.‘Well, I'm not expecting anyone. Are you?'

‘No. I don't know anyone here.'

The doorbell rang again. A long insistent ring.

‘Look. I'll get it,' I said, when it became clear that Kate wasn't going to go.‘I don't mind.'

Kate pulled my new copy of
Teen Vogue
magazine from the shelf above my desk, then went and lay back on my bed. ‘Suit yourself,' she said. ‘It's probably someone selling something.'

I flew down the stairs two at a time, raced to the door and opened it just in time to see the back of someone heading for the gate.

‘Hi. Sorry,' I called.‘Can I help you?'

The person turned and lowered the umbrella.

It was the boy from the mini mart. Joe.

Footsteps stomped angrily down the stairs. A second later, the kitchen door burst open.

‘HAVE YOU BEEN SMOKING UP IN YOUR ROOM?'

I was about to bite into a slice of wholemeal toast spread with raspberry jam and crunchy peanut butter (my favourite combo) but stopped pre-chomp. ‘Not me, honest —' I began, then thought,
Why am I explaining myself to my TWELVE-year-old brother?
‘Not that it's any of your business.'

‘It
is
my business,' he said. ‘I share that floor with you, and people have been known to die of passive smoking.'

His expression was so earnest that it made me want to laugh. ‘So bite me,' I said with a grin. ‘Like, what were you in your last life? A sniffer dog?'

‘It's
not
a joke, India Jane,' he said.‘Statistics show —'

‘Statistics
show,'
I mimicked, causing Dylan to look even crosser.‘Get yourself an oxygen mask. I can do what I like, and have who I like in my room, and they can do what they like when they're up there.'

Dylan clenched his teeth, gave me a filthy look, then went out slamming the door behind him.

‘Stress can kill you too,' I called after him.

Inwardly, I cursed that I hadn't thought to light a joss stick before he and Mum got back. As soon as Joe had gone, I'd raced back upstairs to ask Kate for the low down on who he was, but all that was left of her was the lingering smell of cigarette smoke. When I came looking for her downstairs, I got distracted by my rumbly tummy and got involved making toast before fumigating my room. Of course, Dylan the Nose had sniffed out the whiff of cigarettes as soon as he'd gone up there.

A moment later, Mum appeared, put some groceries in the fridge, then disappeared again. She'd probably smelled the smoke too when she went upstairs as it had permeated the whole house, but she didn't say anything. She wouldn't. Mum and Dad believe in letting us experiment and find our own way. Unlike Dylan. He's a bit of an old lady when it comes to health, like he's the conscience for our whole family. He's forever lecturing us about the dangers of preservatives, additives, too much sugar or salt. He's not normal, that's for sure, or maybe it's because he's a Scorpio and they are supposed to be intense. I
reckon it's also because he's small for his age. Something he hates. Erin said that he overcompensates for his size like small dogs do by making a lot of noise. He doesn't need to worry. Both Mum and Dad are tall, so he'll probably grow eventually but sadly not soon enough for him. Personally, I don't know why he gets so het up about everything. Mum and Dad are health conscious, always have been, and they have always bought organic food, even grown it where they could. But they're chilled about it. Not Dylan though. He looks at the back of packages, checks all the ingredients. He's obsessive. I sometimes wonder how he manages to make friends. He does though, especially with girls – as he is cute, even though a tad short at the moment. Back in Ireland, there was always a bunch of coy girls on the phone for him or waiting for him at the school gate.