Chocolate Box Girls: Sweet Honey (24 page)

BOOK: Chocolate Box Girls: Sweet Honey

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Any plans of idling the next few months
away bite the dust when Mum takes me to see a sixth-form college the other side of
Minehead, where they agree to let me take art and English and French GCSE this June,
then start A levels after the summer. Before long, I’m back on a strict study
timetable; Ash would be proud.

I’ve talked a lot with Mum about
what happened when Dad left. She chose not to tell us that Dad had been having
affairs ever since I was tiny; she didn’t talk about the times he went missing
for days, his selfishness, his temper, the endless rows when we were all tucked up
safely in bed. ‘That was between the two of us,’ she says. ‘Greg
is a long way from perfect, but he loves you. He loves you as much as he can –
remember that.’

It’s too bad that it turned out
not to be enough.

A few days back I found the old plastic
tiara I used to wear for dressing up when I was a kid, back when I dreamt of being a
princess. I threw it in the bin; there were too many unhappy memories. I think
I’ve finally outgrown the princess phase. Maybe I should thank Dad and Anthony
for what they’ve put me through because I survived, and I feel better,
stronger, more hopeful now. I just wish it hadn’t been such a bumpy ride.

So … how do you start again?
You shake things up, blot everything out, let the snow settle. It’s March now,
and it’s snowing at Tanglewood, the kind of quick, swirling storm that blows
up from nowhere and vanishes again just as fast. When the snow settles, everything
looks perfect, just like the snow globe I got for Christmas. I know it won’t
last for long, but that’s OK. I’m not looking for perfect any more.
I’m looking for reality because mixed up with all its hurts and hardships and
disappointments there are moments of pure happiness and wonder, moments when
it’s all worthwhile. I curl up on the window seat of my turret room, reading a
letter from Ash, pages of handwritten words that weave together to make a picture so
real I can almost touch it, taste it. I think of a brown-eyed boy sitting in the
sunshine, half a world away, and I know somehow that one day we’ll be together
again and that will be as close to perfect as I can imagine.

I put the letter down and pick up my own
pen. I’ve been writing to Ash, Bennie and Tara regularly, but there’s
another, more important letter I’ve been meaning to write. I smooth out a
clean sheet of paper, frowning.

What do you say? How do you begin? I
have messed up so badly, for so long. I have hurt my family, done almost as much
damage as Dad. There is one person I haven’t messed up with, though. I can
still redeem myself, reach out to my brother, let him know he isn’t alone. I
have learnt a lot about families, and though it’s a big risk, I am almost sure
that Mum and Paddy and my sisters will understand why this is something I have to
do.

I am not sure how to begin, how to say
the things I want to say, but I take a deep breath and begin anyway.

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