This Way to Paradise (4 page)

Upstairs, I could hear Kate and Aunt Sarah rowing about something. She'd probably smelled the smoke too and unlike Dylan wasn't blaming me.
Oh happy families,
I thought as I got my phone out and texted Erin.

Hey. M in luv. India J XX

A text came straight back.

Who? Wen? Where? How?

I was about to text again when Kate burst into the kitchen.
‘Christ,' she sighed and looked at her watch. ‘Only two hours before Monster Mother goes – then peace.' She eyed the second piece of toast, jam and peanut butter that was lying on my plate ready to be eaten, picked it up and took a bite.

‘Um . . . Kate,' I said. ‘That boy who came to the door before . . .'

‘What boy?'

‘Joe. I think his name's Joe. He dropped an envelope off for your mum.'

Kate shrugged.‘Oh Joe Donahue. Yeah. What about him?'

‘Who is he?'

Kate stopped chewing, sat down opposite and scrutinised me with narrow eyes. ‘Do you fancy him?'

I felt myself redden. ‘Er . . . maybe. I don't really know him.'

‘Oh God,' said Kate, then she shook her head. ‘Don't. Not Joe. He's in the same year as me at school. Stay away from him.'

‘Why? He looked nice.'

‘Don't all the bad boys?'

‘Bad boy? Why?'

Kate tapped the side of her nose. ‘Just trust me on this,' she said. ‘And I know it may sound rich coming from me, seeing as I have had my fair share of bad-boy boyfriends but, believe me, Joe Donahue is in a league of his own and no way do I want to see you hurt.'

I was about to ask her more, but Mum came back in with more groceries and I didn't want her getting into it and then
later it becoming a topic of conversation for the whole family.
I'll corner Kate later,
I thought,
and find out more.
I was intrigued. He hadn't seemed like bad news at the door earlier. At first I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw that he was standing there on Aunt Sarah's front steps, looking even more handsome than before with his hair damp and slightly curled from the rain. I think my jaw must have fallen open and he looked amused when he saw that it was me.

He'd glanced up at the house. ‘Can you give this to Sarah . . . that is Mrs Rosen.'

‘Sure. She's my aunt,' I said.

‘Ah,' he said and a twinkle appeared in his eyes. ‘And part of the family that
hasn't
got head lice?'

‘The very same,' I said in a stupidly pompous manner for which I immediately cursed myself. ‘I . . . I picked up the wrong bottle by mistake.'

‘Easily done,' he said and gave me a killer-watt smile.

I scanned my brain for something witty and brilliant to say back but all that came out was, ‘Yumph.'

He nodded as if I'd said something sensible. ‘Er yeah. OK. Later then,' he said and for a few seconds our eyes met and my stomach did the fluttery butterfly thing again. There was a connection and I was sure he'd felt it too.

He turned back into the rain, put his umbrella up, walked down the path, out the gate and disappeared. I wanted to yell after him – later
when
exactly? Where are you going on your
trip? How long for? Who with? When are you back? Do you have a girlfriend? Do you want one?

But of course, I didn't.

‘Yeah, later,' I said into the rain.

As soon as Aunt Sarah's taxi had gone, Kate started making her own plans to leave, but I cornered her in the hall before she escaped.

‘See yus,' she said as she donned her Prada glasses, shoved a twenty pound note into the back pocket of her jeans and headed for the front door.

‘I . . . but . . . just before you go, I wanted to ask you more about Joe,' I blustered.

She rolled her eyes up to the ceiling. ‘I told you, he's bad news. There's a trail of broken hearts after that boy and, seeing as I am your older responsible cousin, I'm going to make sure that yours isn't one of them.'

Personally I didn't think that ‘Kate' and ‘responsible' were two words that went together but I wasn't going to spoil her moment of feeling protective towards me.

‘Well, he's going on a trip,' I said. ‘So not much chance of anything happening.'

Kate nodded. ‘He's going to Greece.'

‘What? With Aunt Sarah?'

‘Yes. No. At least, he's not travelling with her. He's going out soon though, I think. Not sure when.'

‘How come?'

‘His mum's one of my mum's oldest friends. Her name's Charlotte, but we call her Lottie. They go back years. She helped Mum set up the centre and she runs workshops over there.'

‘Really. What kind?'

‘Get bendy, stick your leg behind your left ear and get enlightened type tosh, you know – yoga. And she does boreyourself-into-oblivion nutrition too, I think. Lentils and brown rice. To be avoided at all costs.'

I burst out laughing. ‘Not quite how they describe it in the brochure,' I said.

The centre in Greece, called Cloud Nine, was Aunt Sarah's latest business venture. Unlike my mum, who used her inheritance to travel the world, Aunt Sarah had invested hers. First she had a stall on Portobello Road selling jewellery that she'd bought in India and Thailand. With the proceeds from that, she bought a small shop and then another and then another, until she had four shops selling jewellery and artefacts from all over the world. Next, she invested in property and bought the house in Holland Park, plus a couple of flats in North London that she rented out. A few years ago, she sold the flats, bought land in Greece and set up a centre for holistic holidays. It offers all sorts of self-help and creative workshops, and people go there to do writing, art, meditation, dance, yoga – a variety of classes from the weird to the wonderful.

Kate laughed too. ‘Yeah. Mum ought to ask me to do the
blurb for her. I'd tell the truth about what goes on there. Not my idea of fun, I can tell you that much.'

‘So why's Joe going then? What's he going to do there?'

Kate shrugged. ‘Dunno. Not to do the classes. I think I heard Mum say something about getting him a job out there for the summer. In the town not the centre. But he's probably going mainly so that Lottie can keep an eye on him. Which means the big bad wolf is out of the way for the summer and you are safe.'

Yeah, maybe,
I thought as Kate made her exit,
but he'd be back in time for school in September.
And the good news was that I'd be going to the same school as him and Kate. Plus my aunt knew his mum. Chances are there would be plenty of opportunity to accidentally bump into him. Later, he'd said. Yeah. I'd make sure that was a definite.

Erin had got a job for a month in Busby's, which was the local supermarket near where we used to live. She hated it, but it was a way to earn some extra dosh to come over to London in August. It made me think that maybe I should get a part-time job too and earn some money so that I could go and visit her at half-term or Christmas. I knew that Mum and Dad couldn't afford to give me any cash as the only topic of conversation over meals since we had arrived in London was how broke they were and what they were going to do for work. It was going to be a whole new chapter for both of them. Not that either of them had never worked before, just they had never
had
to. Wherever we had been in the world, both of them had always kept busy at something, Dad with his art and music and Mum with her art, jewellery design and homemade bath products.

Finding a job for Mum was no problem. Aunt Sarah had put her to work as soon as she had arrived. Before Aunt Sarah left, she helped Mum to set up a workshop in the basement where she could make jewellery for one of the shops. Aunt Sarah also asked Mum to develop a range of bath soaps, oils and gels, and the house did smell lovely as she experimented with various combinations of herbs, fruits and flowers and their scents wafted up the stairs. Between the posh shops and home, I floated from one lovely smell to another.

Dad wasn't having such an easy time. Although there was loads he could do – as he is good at lots of different things: art, music (he plays piano, cello and guitar) and he speaks a few
languages (Italian, Spanish, French and Urdu), he wasn't having much luck finding anyone to employ him. In the first few days in London, he took slides of his paintings around galleries and, although a few expressed interest and one even offered to give him a show, they were all booked up for the next year.

He tried a few of his orchestra friends, but no one had any vacancies except as a stand-in if anyone was sick, but with that there was no promise of regular money.

‘Nothing for a Renaissance man like me,' he said and went and took it out on the piano for an hour. That was one of Dad's ways of dealing with problems – make a lot of noise! Although he did play brilliantly sometimes, I longed for the kind of father who had a quieter method of letting off steam.

After we'd been in London a week, Dad blasted out one morning declaring that he was going to the job centre and he was going to take any job there was going. He came back a couple of hours later looking miserable. Really down. I made him a ginger, lemon and honey drink the way he likes and took it to the basement where he had draped himself on an old velvet chaise longue in Mum's workshop.

‘No luck?' I asked.

‘They offered me a trial job in a DIY store. I'd probably earn no more than your friend Erin, India Jane. Either that or I can work on a building site.'

For the first time I could remember, my bombastic, endlessly enthusiastic dad looked depressed.

‘Something will turn up,' said Mum.‘Surely you could teach? Music or languages?'

Dad shook his head. ‘I could, but they won't let me. You have to have the right qualifications to work in schools or colleges. And you have to have a CV. A record of employment. The system doesn't allow for people like me. My CV reads like a travel brochure.'

‘What about the orchestras?' I asked.

‘Nothing happening. No. It will have to be the building site,' he said as he sipped the drink I'd given him and made an attempt at looking brave. ‘It'll be fine. All part of life's rich experience and maybe something will turn up in the autumn.'

Thank God for Aunt Sarah's house,
I thought as I went back upstairs.
At least we have somewhere to live.

The following day, Dad went out again and I continued my exploration of the area. I was about to e-mail Erin in the evening about some fabbie dabbie vintage clothing stalls I'd found near Portobello Market, when I heard Dylan yell up the stairs.

‘India, INDIAAAAAAAAAAA JAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANE!'

I went out on to the landing. ‘What?'

‘Dad wants us downstairs.'