I malleted a wooden peg savagely into the damp ground. Helping the community might be rewarding, but it was a bugger on your shoulders.
At the beginning there’d been five of us working on getting the refreshments marquee up for the members of the Seascale Amateur Operatic Society to serve cream teas at this year’s Wasdale Wet One – all so the scary headmistress-like chairwoman could complain about it being slightly too close to the barbecue or slightly too far from the brass band, just like she did every year. But the other volunteers had dwindled away, and now the only ones left were me and Tiffany Bradley, a local girl of about my age who my aunty-slash-mum was determined I needed to become best friends with, despite the fact we had literally nothing in common. I suspected she’d only stayed on to enjoy her new favourite hobby of rubbing her oh-so-perfect life in my face.
‘I hope you don’t mind if I get off now, Kitty,’ she said, watching me hammer in the peg with no sign of giving me a hand. ‘Joe’s on his way with Robbie. He screams the house down if I’m away from him for too long.’ She shot me a patronising smile. ‘Of course, it’s different for you, all on your own. You can be footloose and fancy-free, you lucky thing.’
Ugh. What was it with some parents? That smug you-wouldn’t-get-it attitude they just loved to beat you over the head with. I wished Laurel was there to offer up a healthy dose of reality. She hated that sort of thing.
‘Something like that,’ I said.
Her face lifted into a bright smile as a white BMW pulled up outside the portaloos. ‘Oh, my boys have come to get me!’
‘Mummy!’ Her little son Robbie, four years old and with the calculating features of a miniature psychopath, came hurtling towards her and flung himself into her round, six-months-pregnant belly.
‘Oof! You little monster,’ she said, smiling fondly at him. ‘How’s Mummy’s little man?’
‘Hungry. Where’s tea?’ demanded Mummy’s little man. He jabbed an accusing finger into her stomach. ‘You didn’t come home to make my tea.’
‘I’m coming home now. I had to help the ladies sort out the fair for tomorrow, so you can have a fun day with all your friends.’ She nodded to me. ‘Say hello to Kitty. You remember her, don’t you?’
Robbie eyed me with deep suspicion. ‘No,’ he said brutally, corking his thumb in his mouth.
I smiled at him. ‘Course you do, Robbie. I let you have a turn on the water pistol game last year for free when you hurt your knee, remember?’
‘No.’
I tried another tack. ‘What’s that you’ve got?’ I asked, nodding to the floppy thing under his arm. ‘A dolly?’
The child’s look of disgust could have cut through diamond. ‘Eurghh, no. Dollies are for girls. S’Billy.’ He held up the little marionette toy to show me.
Well, of course. Otherwise it’d just be too easy, wouldn’t it? Everywhere I went, everywhere I tried to forget him, there had to be some piece of Jack Duffy. The love of my fucking life.
‘They’re from these books he likes,’ Tiff said with a laugh. ‘Tilly and Billy, you know them?’
‘A little.’
‘He can’t get enough of them.’ She glanced over her shoulder to where her husband Joe was locking the car, and lowered her voice. ‘I took him once to have one signed by the guy who writes them. You should see him! Not at all what you’d expect. He looks like he should be modelling instead of writing kids’ books.’
‘Oh yeah?’ I said, keeping my face fixed.
‘Bit scruffy, but face of an angel. And the body!’ She shot a guilty look back at Joe’s prematurely balding head as he turned to walk towards us. ‘Not as good-looking as my Joe, of course. But I bet he’s got women throwing themselves at him 24-7.’
‘Lucky Jack,’ I mumbled, starting work on another peg that was just begging for a good hammering.
Tiff looked at me in surprise. ‘How do you know that’s his name?’
‘Oh, er… my stepsister, Laurel. Her little boys love those books.’
‘Ah. Right.’ She turned to beam at her husband. ‘Bunny rabbit! So sweet of you to collect me.’ Then she launched herself at him for a full-on snog, clearly for my benefit. Briefly, Robbie and I shared a moment when he caught my eye and we both grimaced at the exact same time.
‘Yuck!’ said the kid as his parents separated, unable to stop himself vocalising his disgust.
Joe laughed. ‘You won’t always think kissing girls is yuck, my lad,’ he said, ruffling the boy’s hair. Robbie, however, didn’t look convinced.
‘Look, I’d better get on and finish the marquee,’ I said. Since no one was going to bloody help me… ‘You guys get off home, I’ll be fine on my own.’
‘Thanks, Kitty. I should get Robbie his tea, before he starts bouncing off the walls.’ Tiffany gave my shoulder a last patronising pat. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow for a proper chat. I’m next to you, running the buzzwire game.’
Oh, brilliant. An afternoon of Tiffany recycling celeb gossip from Heat at me while sticky kids manhandled the water pistol game I was always assigned to. What larks.
‘Great,’ I said, summoning a smile that was just a little too wide. ‘Looking forward to it.’
***
Propped on my elbows, I watched a combination of local families and tourists milling about the field enjoying the stalls and games that constituted the annual Wastwater Wet One. In a cocked snook to the card who’d come up with the name, it was actually blazing sunshine, and unseasonably warm. The year’s Indian summer was showing no signs of letting up.
The fancy-dress theme for this year was Toyland and everywhere I looked there were tin soldiers, teddy bears and rosy-cheeked ragdolls. Not to mention a generous sprinkling of Tillies and Billies. I don’t think I’d realised, until I’d got the job as Jack’s PA, just how popular the little puppets were.
Fancy dress was mandatory for helpers too. I was supposed to be a robot, my face painted silver, dazzling everyone – although very much only in the literal sense – in the tinfoil hat I’d hastily knocked up the evening before. The whole ensemble made me look like the lovechild of a conspiracy nut and a cyberman (which, I pondered, must’ve been some date).
‘How much?’ a bald, burly man demanded.
‘Hmm?’ I said, my gaze fixed on a little pigtailed Tilly over by the bouncy castle. She was clutching a Buzz Lightyear helium balloon in one hand while trying to stuff a jam doughnut whole into her mouth with the other, and I’d made a bet with myself on whether she’d get it all in.
‘Your game. How much?’ the man repeated.
‘Oh.’ I shook myself out of the daze. ‘25p or five goes for a pound. If you can knock three ping pong balls off the golf tees with the water gun, you win a big Galaxy bar. If not, it’s a lolly consolation prize.’ I smiled at the little lad clasping his dad’s hand. ‘Think you can manage it, sweetie?’
The boy nodded shyly, and I handed him the gun. But he was too tiny to get his aim straight, and he only managed a wobble from one ball.
‘Never mind. You still win this for trying so hard,’ I said, handing him his lolly. I lowered my voice. ‘And don’t worry. I can’t do it either.’
‘Let me have a go,’ his dad said.
‘Okay. But I warn you, it’s tougher than it looks.’
‘Rubbish. I’ve been champion of the darts team three years in a row. Buggered if I can’t hammer a few ping pong balls.’
The man grabbed the water gun, reeking of sweat and machismo, but in the end he fared even worse than his son. He failed to move a single ball. It was all I could do not to laugh at the wounded pride in his eyes.
‘Sorry,’ I said, giving him a lolly. ‘Better luck next time, eh?’
‘Fix,’ he mumbled.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Fix. Those balls are glued on.’
I raised my eyebrows. Silently, I lifted each ball off its tee so he could see there was no foul play.
‘Well there’s something going on,’ he muttered. He unpeeled his lolly and plugged it in his jaw. ‘No daft kiddies’ game gets the better of me,’ he said, in a tone that might’ve been menacing if there hadn’t been a Chupa Chups stick poking out of one corner of his mouth. ‘I’ll be back.’
And he was as true to his word as the Terminator. Half an hour later, he’d had six goes and still hadn’t won a big Galaxy bar. He could’ve bought two Galaxies with the money he’d spent on the game, but I was sensing that wasn’t the point.
Tiffany, dressed as a fairy princess doll in a meringue-like pink dress – God knew where she’d managed to find a maternity version of the costume, but she had – leaned over to whisper in my ear.
‘Think you’ve got an admirer there.’
I snorted. ‘What, that guy? Why, you think he’s got a tinfoil fetish?’
‘Seriously. Why do you think he keeps coming back?’
‘To show off to the little lad, probably. No dad wants to admit to his son that he can’t win at a simple pocket-money game.’
She shook her head. ‘You’ve got to be kidding me. You don’t even know who he is, do you?’
I frowned. ‘Why, should I?’
‘That’s only the area’s most eligible bachelor. Justin Coleman, Joe’s boss at Coleman’s Accountants.’
‘That guy’s an accountant?’ I stared at him in disbelief. ‘He looks like the lost Mitchell brother.’
‘He’s loaded though.’ She nudged me. ‘So? Are you going to go for it?’
‘With him? Don’t be daft. He’s completely—’ I broke off, catching a glimpse of her husband Joe’s almost bald head blending in with the merchandise on the coconut shy he was running. ‘Er, completely not my type,’ I finished, flashing her a weak smile.
She shrugged. ‘Suit yourself.’
By 4 p.m., the sun was the hottest it had been all afternoon. Sweat was pouring off me, despite it being early October.
‘Are you okay?’ Tiffany asked, examining me with concern. ‘You’ve gone very pale.’
‘I’m… fine,’ I said, holding one hand to my forehead. ‘Touch of the sun, I think. Can you mind my stall a sec while I pop to the loo?’ I felt a sudden need to be alone for five minutes.
‘No problem.’ She shot me a suggestive smirk. ‘What shall I say if Justin Coleman comes back? Shall I give him your number?’
‘Don’t you dare. Look, I won’t be long. Just hold the fort.’
I came out from behind my trestle table and hurried off in the direction of the portaloos. Thankfully there was no queue. I dived into one and locked the door.
Whether from the hot sun or too long on my feet, I was feeling very dizzy all of a sudden. A wave of intense nausea gripped me and I sank to my knees over the toilet bowl, retching until whatever was causing the problem was out of my system. God, I hoped there was no one waiting outside to witness the aftermath of me vomming my guts out dressed as a 1950s B-movie extra. How bloody embarrassing.
I flushed away the evidence of my upset stomach before the sight of it made me feel sick again. Second time this week. Stress, probably. Or heartbreak; the two seemed to go hand in hand.
I wondered if Jack, wherever he was, was going through it too. Did he still have my little caravan? That’d be bound to remind him of me. Hopefully he’d have the good sense to sell it now he didn’t need the extra space.
I rinsed my mouth out at the sink then dampened a paper towel and held it against my clammy brow, concentrating on bringing the swimming reflection in the mirror into focus. Words whirled in my brain, fragments of old conversations. I couldn’t help feeling I was failing to process something obvious.
The caravan… suddenly I remembered what I’d said to Aunty Julia the day I’d come home. Waste of money in the end… I only slept in it a few nights.
A few nights! That’s right, I only slept in it… I fumbled for my phone in a panic and shot a glance at the calendar.
‘Shit! Oh, shit!’ I stared at my ridiculous robot face in the mirror, the silver facepaint patchy and smudged.
‘Shit,’ I whispered.