“Splendid!” Mum replies in an even posher voice. She goes over to Dad and kisses him on the back of his neck. “It smells amazing, darling.”
Dad spins around and grabs her in a hug. We all avert our eyes. I guess it’s good that my parents still get on so well—that they don’t sit in bitter silence for hours on end like Elliot’s—but sometimes their PDAs are a little bit cringey.
“Are you still OK to help Andrea out in the shop this afternoon?” Mum asks, coming to sit next to me.
“Of course.” I turn to Elliot. “Do you fancy a trip around the Lanes this morning?”
Tom immediately groans. He hates anything to do with clothes and shopping—which is probably why he’s currently wearing a vile orange football top and red pajama bottoms.
“Of course,” Elliot replies. Elliot is most definitely my soul brother.
“And a trip to the 2p machines on the pier?” I add hopefully.
“Of course not,” Elliot replies with a frown. I flick him with my napkin. As Mum gets up to fetch some maple syrup from the cupboard, Elliot leans in close to me and whispers, “OMG, your blog last night was amazing. Did you see all the comments?”
I nod and grin, feeling stupidly proud.
“I told you it would go down well,” Elliot says smugly.
“What went down well?” Mum asks, coming back to the table.
“Nothing,” I say.
“The Titanic,” Elliot says.
• • •
Two hours later, Elliot and I are on the end of the pier playing the 2p game.
“I’m sorry,” Elliot says, raising his voice over the sound of ringing slot machines, “but I just don’t see the point of this dumb game. At. All.”
I insert another coin and clench my hands together as I watch the tray of coins slide forward. The coins on the edge of the tray quiver—but stay put. I let out a loud sigh.
“I mean, it’s a bit like Myspace, isn’t it? Or porridge? There’s just no point to it!”
I insert another 2p and start singing “la, la, la” inside my head to drown out Elliot’s moaning. The truth is he loves to hate the 2p game as much as I love to play it. The tray slides forward and at first it looks as if I’ve lost again. But then one of the coins hanging over the edge drops and this sparks an avalanche. I clap my hands for joy as a load of coins clatter down into the tray.
“Yes!” I cry, hugging Elliot just to annoy him even more.
He frowns at me but I can tell from the way his eyes are twinkling behind his red-rimmed glasses that he’s trying really hard not to grin.
“I’ve won!” I scoop the money from the tray.
“So you have.” Elliot looks down at the coins in my hand. “Twenty whole pence. What on earth are you going to do with such a life-changing sum?”
I tilt my head to one side. “Well, first I’ll make sure that my family is all taken care of. Then I’ll buy myself a mini convertible. And then I think I’ll buy my good friend Elliot a sense of humor!” I shriek with laughter as I dodge his play-punch. “Come on; let’s check out the Lanes before I have to start work.”
• • •
The Lanes are my favorite part of Brighton—apart from the sea of course. Their labyrinth of cobbled streets and quaint little shops make you feel as if you’ve turned a corner and journeyed two hundred years back in time.
“Did you know that the Cricketers’ Arms used to be called the Laste and Fishcart?” Elliot says, as we walk past the old pub.
“The Last Fishcart,” I say, absentmindedly, as I watch a girl walking toward us. She’s wearing an amber trilby hat with a full-length printed jumpsuit. She looks amazing. I instantly want to take a picture, but I’m a second too late and she disappears around the corner.
“No, not the Last Fishcart—the Laste and Fishcart,” Elliot says. “A laste is the measurement they used for ten thousand herrings—back in the day when Brighton was a fishing village.”
“All right, Wiki,” I say with a grin.
Elliot truly is a walking, talking Wikipedia. I don’t know how he manages to store so much random info in his head. His brain must be the equivalent of a six-terabyte hard drive. (A six-terabyte hard drive is currently the biggest hard drive in the world—another random fact I learned from Elliot!)
I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket. It’s a text from Megan. I instantly think of what happened yesterday in JB’s and my mouth goes dry. But her text is surprisingly friendly.
Hey, are we still on for tonight? Xoxo
I’d totally forgotten about tonight. Earlier in the week I’d suggested we have a sleepover like we used to. I was partly joking, and partly trying to get our friendship back onto its old, easier ground, when everything seemed so blissfully uncomplicated.
“Who is it?” Elliot asks as we make our way past one of the Lanes’ many jewelry shops. The window curves out from the front, as if it is literally bulging with trays of silver necklaces, bracelets, and rings.
“Megan,” I mutter, hoping Elliot won’t hear—or won’t care.
“What does she want?” he says.
My heart sinks. “Oh, just to see if we’re still on for tonight.”
Elliot stares at me. “What’s happening tonight?”
I look down at the cobbled street. “I asked her to come over for a sleepover.”
“A sleepover? Er, hello, we are in Year Eleven now.”
I look at him, my face flushing. “I know. I didn’t think she’d want to come, to be honest.”
“So why did you ask her?”
“I thought it would be fun,” I reply with a shrug.
“Hmm,” Elliot says. “About as much fun as a night in with my parents, which is what I’m now doomed to.”
“I’m sorry.” I link arms with Elliot. He’s wearing his vintage woolen coat. It feels all warm and snug.
“Never mind,” Elliot says with a sigh. “I’ve got a massive history project to finish by Monday so it’s probably best I stay in. Hey, did you know that the house over there used to be the Sussex and Brighton Infirmary for Eye Diseases?”
That’s one of the things I love the most about Elliot—he can never stay cross for more than about ten seconds. If only all friends could be like that!
We walk past Choccywoccydoodah, just as a couple is coming out, bringing with them the sweet smell of cookies baking.
“Shall we pop into Tic Toc for a hot chocolate?” I ask. I still have half an hour before I have to be at the shop.
“Er, shall the moon rise tonight?” Elliot says theatrically. He opens the door and waves me in.
Inside the café is steamy and warm. There is no denying Tic Toc does the best hot chocolate in Brighton. And Elliot and I ought to know, we’ve conducted a scientific survey into it. As Elliot checks out the cakes on the counter, I sit down at a table and quickly text Megan back.
Sure. Come round about 8 Px
“OMG!” Elliot says as he gets back to the table. “They’ve got a new flavor cupcake!” His eyes are as wide as saucers. “Raspberry and Mocha.”
“Oh wow.”
“Do you want one?”
I nod. Even though I’m still pretty stuffed from breakfast I always have room for a cupcake.
“Cool. I’ll go and order.”
As Elliot heads back to the counter I lean back in my chair, letting the warmth of the café seep into me. Then the door opens and a boy walks in. I recognize him immediately as Ollie’s older brother, Sebastian. Ollie comes strolling in behind him. I grab the menu card and pretend to study it, hoping that he won’t see me and they’ll go and sit in the far corner. But then I hear the chair at the table next to me being scraped back on the wooden floor.
“Penny!”
I look up and see Ollie grinning down at me. There’s no denying it—his grin is puppy-dog cute. He sits down in the chair next to me. Across from him, Sebastian stares at me coldly. Sebastian is two years older than us and he’s one of the most popular—and arrogant—people in sixth
form. He’s also a regional tennis champion. Rumor has it he once told Andy Murray he ought to work harder on his backhand. I can believe it.
“What do you want?” he asks Ollie tersely.
“Can I get a chocolate milkshake?” Ollie says.
Sebastian scowls at him like he’s just asked for a cup of vomit. “Seriously? Please don’t tell me you want sprinkles and a flake too?”
Ollie nods, and it’s the first time I’ve ever seen him look embarrassed.
Sebastian shakes his head and sighs. “You’re such a kid.”
“All right. I’ll have a coffee then.” Ollie’s cheeks are bright red now. It’s weird seeing him so unconfident. I feel really sorry for him.
Sebastian goes over to the counter and queues up behind Elliot, and I start panicking about what Elliot will do when he sees our table has been crashed by the Walking Selfie.
“It’s so strange bumping into you like this,” Ollie says, taking off his scarf. “I just texted Megan about half an hour ago asking for your number.”
“Really?” My voice comes out in a squeak. I cough and try again. “Why’s that?” My voice now sounds as deep as a man’s. I look down at the tablecloth and wish that it would magically come to life and wrap itself around me to hide my shame.
“I was going to ask you if you fancied meeting tomorrow lunchtime?”
I glance at Ollie, wondering if maybe I haven’t woken up yet and everything that’s happened so far has just been a dream. I pinch my leg under the table to check—a little too hard.
“Ow!”
Ollie looks at me, concerned. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, I . . .”
“You looked like you were in pain.”
“I was. It was—it —” I rack my brains for some kind of explanation. “I think I’ve been bitten.”
“Bitten? By what?”
“Er. A flea?”
NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! my inner voice yells at me.
Ollie moves away slightly in his seat.
“I mean, i-it wasn’t a flea,” I stammer. “Obviously! I don’t have fleas or anything—it just felt like . . .”
I shift uncomfortably and the leather padding on my chair makes a loud noise. A loud farting-type noise.
“That wasn’t me—it was my chair!” I yelp. Why, oh why, did I have to sit in the chair with some kind of built-in whoopee cushion? I shift again, trying to make the same noise, to prove to Ollie that I didn’t just break wind, but now, of course, my chair remains deadly silent.
Ollie stares at me. Then he sniffs—he actually sniffs the air with a pained expression on his face. Oh my God—he thinks I farted. He thinks I have fleas and I farted! I start praying for an asteroid to hit the café, or for the zombie apocalypse to start—anything to make Ollie forget what has just happened.
“Oh no! Is that the time?” I say, not even bothering to look at my watch or my phone. “I have to go. Have to get to work.” I stumble up from my chair.
“But what about tomorrow?” Ollie says.
“Yes. Absolutely. Text me.” Finally, I say something that doesn’t sound insane. That actually sounds quite cool. But then, as I gather up mine and Elliot’s coats, I trip on my scarf and crash into a waitress carrying a tray of toasted paninis. Cutlery is sent clattering to the floor and a terrible shocked silence falls upon the café. I can feel everyone’s eyes burning into me. Somehow I make it over to Elliot without any further disaster. “We have to go,” I hiss at him.
“What?” He frowns at me. “But what about our food?”
“Get it to go and bring it to the shop. There’s been an emergency. Thank you. Bye.”
And, with that, I fling his coat at him and stumble out onto the street.
Chapter Four
It takes about two hours for my cheeks to return to their normal temperature. Elliot thought the whole thing was hilarious. He even said I should have told Ollie, “Better out than in”! But he doesn’t understand. What happened today was the closest I’ve ever gotten to being asked out on a date by someone I have an actual crush on. I bet in the All-Time History of Dating no girl has ever told a boy who has just asked her out that she has fleas—and then farted! Or at least sounded as if she farted. That has to go down as the worst response ever !
From my seat behind the counter, I look around To Have and to Hold. Andrea is over by the rails of dresses helping a young woman decide between a Barbie- and a Cinderella-themed wedding. The young woman’s fiancé is sulking in an armchair in the corner after being told we don’t do a Grand Prix theme. It’s only about three o’clock but outside the light’s already beginning to fade. The shoppers rushing by look grim-faced and wind-swept. I’m glad I’m in here, even if I am working. To be honest, coming to the shop doesn’t ever feel much like working. Mum has created such a beautiful space it’s more like coming to a fairy grotto, what with the twinkling lights and the scented candles and the music. I reckon we must be the only shop in Brighton—if not the UK—to play background music on a vintage record player. But the crackling of the needle on the vinyl really adds to the atmosphere, especially with our playlist of soulful love songs. It’s impossible to leave To Have and to Hold without feeling all warm and melty inside. Unless of course you’ve just told the boy you’ve had a crush on for the past six years that you might have fleas.
To take my mind off “Flea and Fart Shame,” I decide to go and check the window display. Every couple of weeks Mum changes the display to feature our newest theme. At the moment it’s Downton Abbey so the bridal mannequin in the window is wearing a white ruffled long-sleeved dress with a collar so high it looks more like a blouse. I notice that the brooch on the collar has gone slightly askew so I climb into the window to adjust it. When I turn around to go back, I see a couple outside looking at the display. The woman is gazing at the bridal gown and although I can’t hear what she’s saying I can definitely lip-read that it’s “Oh my God!”
As I walk back to the counter, the bell over the door jangles and the couple walks in.
“It’s the cutest thing ever!” the woman says in a strong American accent.
I look at them and smile. “Hello, can I help you?”
They both smile back at me—their teeth are as perfectly straight and dazzling white as the keys on a piano.
“Yes, we were just wondering if you cater for international weddings?” the man asks.
As they reach the counter, I’m hit by a waft of aftershave. But it’s not the cheap stuff that Tom wears before a night out in town; it smells more subtle and spicy. It smells expensive.
“Well, I’m not exactly sure,” I tell him. Mum has organized some weddings abroad before. But they’ve always been for friends. I’m not about to lose her a potential client, though. “What was it you were interested in?”
“We’re supposed to be getting married right before Christmas,” the man says. He must see the shocked look on my face because he continues: “Yes, this Christmas, as in just over a week away! But we just this morning heard that our wedding planner has other commitments . . .”
“He ran off with the bride from the last wedding he organized!” the woman exclaims.
I fight the urge to grin. That’s exactly the kind of story that Elliot and Tom would find hilarious. “Oh dear,” I say.
“It’s so stressful,” the woman says. “Especially as we’re here in the UK on business so we’re not able to meet with any other wedding planners back home.”
“We were thinking of calling the whole thing off,” the man says.
“But then we saw your adorable display in the window,” the woman continues. “I just love Downton Abbey . . . we’re all in love with it in the States.”
“And so we were wondering if maybe we could hire you guys to take over our wedding,” the man says.
“It would be so cute,” his fiancée says.
The man sulking in the armchair mutters something.
“Of course,” I say quickly. “My mum’s the man
ager of the business but she’s out at the moment. Can I take your details and get her to give you a call when she gets back?”
“Sure. I’m Jim Brady.” The man hands me a business card. It’s one of those expensive ones where the writing is embossed and the card is really thick and silky smooth.
“And I’m Cindy Johnson—soon to be Brady,” the woman says with a smile, handing me an equally expensive-looking card.
“Obviously we have the venue booked already so you guys would just need to do the styling,” Jim says.
“We’re getting married at the Waldorf Astoria in New York,” Cindy adds. From the expectant way she’s looking at me I’m guessing that’s a very good thing.
“That’s lovely,” I say with a smile.
“Oh, y’all have the cutest accent!” Cindy turns to Jim, her eyes wide. “Honey, if we do have a Downton Abbey wedding maybe we should say our vows in British accents.” She turns back to me. “Wouldn’t that be adorable?”
I smile at her and nod. “Yes, absolutely.”
The sulking man in the armchair looks at me and rolls his eyes.
• • •
“Why did the chicken cross the road, roll in mud, and cross the road again?” Dad asks me as soon as I walk into the living room.
He and Tom are both sprawled on the L-shaped sofa, munching on a huge bowl of popcorn with football blaring away on the TV. This is what always happens when they’re left home alone together.
“Please don’t ask him,” Tom says, looking up at me with pleading eyes. “You’ll regret it till your dying day.”
“No, she won’t,” Dad replies quick as a flash. “Pen shares my refined sense of humor—good job one of my offspring does.” He pats the sofa next to him and I go and sit down. He’s right; we definitely share the same sense of humor. Whether it’s refined is another story.
“I don’t know—why did the chicken cross the road, roll in mud, and cross the road again?” I say, grabbing a handful of popcorn.
“Nooooo!” Tom wails, burying his head under a cushion.
“Because he was a dirty double-crosser!” Dad and I look at each other and start buckling over with laughter. From beneath his cushion, Tom howls.