Seeing Stars (30 page)

With Mitzi in hot pursuit, Amber hurtled into the house with the boxes, unloaded them, handed round plates and napkins – black
and guaranteed not to run – tried to wear her most miserable expression, and winced at Slo and Perpetua who were doing a sort
of John Travolta and Olivia Newton-John routine in the corner of the living room to the consternation of a couple of dozen
bemused bereaved.

‘You’ve been so long they’ve run out of dirges and sad odes,’ Constance hissed. ‘The
Grease
thing is what they do at the Evergreens Christmas Party.’

‘You’re the one that I want …’ Slo warbled, shimmying towards Amber with a strange expression. ‘Whoa-whoawhoa-whoa – yeah.’

Amber shoved a Tansy Tear in his mouth.

‘Right,’ Mitzi puffed. ‘Push as much weepy food into them as possible and let’s get out of here. If I’ve mistimed this one
I’ve probably mistimed the kiddies’ party, too.’

Amber nodded and trotted briskly through the ranks of mourners, piling their plates with lashings of Teardrop Explodes and
Weeping Willow Waffles whether they wanted them or not.

‘That should do it,’ Mitzi nodded in satisfaction. ‘And it’ll shut the Motions up, too. There’s enough griefi-nducers in that
lot to have Uncle Michael’s non-mourners blubbing and howling and rending their garments for weeks to come. The whole place’ll
rival the Wailing Wall within fifteen minutes. Now, grab the van keys, and let’s bugger off to the Broughton-Pogges.’

*

They arrived at the Broughton-Pogges’ mock-Tudor with minutes to spare.

‘No time to get into our less scary clothes,’ Mitzi said. ‘We’ll have to pretend we’re Goths.’

‘Crikey,’ Amber blinked as they slithered from the van and started to unload the goodies. ‘Posh or what?’

‘Not as posh as it looks. Harrods money, Pricerite taste. Makes Tarnia Towers look like Buckingham Palace. And they aren’t
married – Broughton-Pogges is an amalgamation of their surnames. Father – Jason Broughton – plays football for Reading or
Oxford or Swindon or somewhere like that. Mother’s the Pogges. A vacuous ex-lap dancer called Lezli. Ready to roll?’

They rolled.

‘If you’re the caterers for the twins’ party,’ a tinny voice screeched through the intercom as they rang the bell, ‘the trade
entrance is round the back. And you’re late. My husband and I will not be in attendance. Nanny is in charge. Nanny will let
you in and show you to the refectory.’

Exchanging raised-eyebrow looks and trying hard not to giggle, they hefted the party food round the side of the house, their
feet slipping and sliding on several tons of multicoloured shingle.

‘Like trying to run a bloody marathon on Brighton beach,’ Mitzi puffed, as they finally reached the back door.

A very pretty Eastern European nanny with green hair and purple nail varnish and a lot of love-bites hustled them through
acres of bad taste into a long, much-windowed room set out with about fifty child-sized chairs and tables, and decorated with
balloons and streamers.

‘That’s fine,’ Mitzi gulped at the nanny. ‘Thank you. We’ll only need a few minutes to get everything ready.’

‘Good,’ the nanny shrugged. ‘When they eat it means I can have some time off. Please keep them in here as long as possible.
I am at the end of my tither.’

‘Difficult, are they? The twins?’ Amber asked sympathetically, as she and Mitzi darted round, setting out the
rainbow plates and bowls and finger food in jewel-bright colours.

‘They are bastard bitches from hell,’ the nanny said, stalking away. ‘I hope you poison the little shits.’

‘Nice to find someone happy in their work,’ Amber giggled. ‘Jesus!’

‘What?’ Mitzi paused in sprinkling hundreds and thousands on top of a Bagpuss cake.

‘Have you seen the banner? “Happy Eighth Birthday Fantasia and Heliotrope!” Poor little sods. They’re probably known as Fanny
and Helly. Who in their right mind would want to call their kids something as outrageous as – er – um – whoops, sorry – I
forgot …’

‘It’s OK,’ Mitzi said loftily. ‘My daughters have never had a problem with being called Dolores and Tallulah. Well – not much.
Well – OK, point taken …’

They grinned at one another again.

‘Right – let’s go and put Nanny out of her misery,’ Mitzi said. ‘And if Granny Westward’s recipes work she should have a nice
peaceful afternoon.’

‘God, Mitzi – you’re not going to sedate them with this lot are you?’

‘No, of course not. These are some of Granny’s specially-adapted-for-children dishes … just a few concoctions using catnip,
celandine, marjoram, meadowsweet, quince – and a liberal sprinkling of pomegranate seeds. Together, they’re all guaranteed
to bring happiness, harmony, euphoria and glee to the most miserable child. They should be chuckling their little heads off
in no time.’

They stood back as the miniature hordes of Ghenghis Khan roared into the room.

The noise level was terrifying, as were the table manners. Cutlery was used as weapons as they crammed as much of everything
into their mouths as they could with their fingers, talking all the while.

Fantasia and Heliotrope, dressed in matching Kylie Minogue stage outfits, punched each other and their guests
as they ate, standing on the tables, kicking over chairs, food oozing from their clenched fists, spitting out anything they
disliked.

‘Nice,’ Amber muttered, pressing herself back against a window. ‘Remind me to make a sterilisation appointment the minute
we’re out of here.’

Horde of locusts wasn’t in it.

Within minutes the tables were left with only debris. The Bagpuss cake was sliding down one wall. There wasn’t much sign of
euphoria, harmony or glee.

Fantasia and Heliotrope stopped yelling obscentities, looked at one another, made a half-hearted attempt to tug one another’s
braided hair, then burst into tears. Falling into a clearly one-off sibling hug, they sobbed snail-trails of body glitter
down each other’s tiny shoulders.

For a second the room went silent, then, as one, the fifty tiny guests started howling and sobbing and prostrating themselves
with inconsolable grief.

‘Hell’s fire!’ Nanny poked her head round the door. ‘What you done to them? This is so good! Mega! Er – I fetch the bloody
parents!’

The din grew worse. The weeping and wailing grew louder. Above it all Mitzi’s mobile rang.

‘Hello?’ she screamed above the mass keening. ‘What?
What?
Oh, holy shit!’

‘What?’ Amber yelled above the cacophony. ‘Mitzi? What the hell’s going on? And what are you doing?’

‘Running,’ Mitzi laughed. ‘Come on! Leave everything! Let’s get out of her before Jace and Lezli arrive on the scene. That
was Slo on the phone – Uncle Michael’s mourners have tripped out and are currently executing a laughing conga up the High
Street! In the rush, we’ve mixed up the cool boxes, Amber! Bloody run!’

Once Upon a Star

‘And now they’ve introduced a bloomin’ hosepipe ban,’ Gwyneth sighed, as the Moth, Chrysalis and Butterfly Cottage occupants,
minus Amber, sat outside in the already scorching sun enjoying their early morning cuppa. ‘Me runners are hanging as limp
as an old whatnot as it is.’

Zillah giggled. She kept giggling these days. It was really odd. She hadn’t giggled for years. And she had this feeling of
– she wasn’t sure of what exactly – but of some sort of tingling anticipation … She put it down to being free of Timmy’s full-on
adoration. What else could it be? Nothing else had changed. Nothing else was ever going to change.

‘We could still do a bit of a rain incantation tonight,’ Big Ida was saying. ‘I know we’ve discussed it before, and I know
it ain’t right on Plough Night and the moon’s not even in the right quarter, but needs must. We ain’t seen a spit of rain
since I don’t remember when.’

‘May, or maybe April,’ Gwyneth said, puffing as she bent down to pat a panting Pike on the head. ‘This is like living in Arundel.’

Big Ida and Zillah peered at her.

‘Arundel?’

‘Ah, that cowboy place in America. All scorched dry and red-dusty with big cacti.’

‘Oh,
Arizona!’
Zillah chuckled. ‘And I don’t think we’re quite as hot and dry as that.’

Big Ida adjusted her sunhat. ‘Won’t be long, you marks my words. Bloody global warming – I blame it on them people as takes
their holidays in foreign climes and brings the tropical ’eat back ’ere with ’em instead of leaving it where it belongs. It
ain’t natural. I can’t remember a summer like this one.’

Zillah could.

The year Lewis was born. The year she came here to Fiddlesticks, frightened, alone, lonely, heartbroken.

It had been a scorching summer then, too. Day after day of relentless blue sky and broiling sun. And she’d felt so ill through
her early pregnancy, and Gwyneth and Big Ida had helped her settle into Chrysalis Cottage, the only place that had been cheap
enough to rent far enough away from anyone who knew her, and they’d been so very kind. And she’d known they’d been shocked
that she was pregnant and unmarried and without a partner even in the background, but they hadn’t shown it, hadn’t uttered
one word of censure.

The rest of the village had, she’d known, regarded her as some sort of loose woman, but Gwyneth and Big Ida had shielded her
from the worst of the hurtful remarks. They’d been kindness itself, and helped her turn damp, dirty, deserted Chrysalis into
a home.

And in the late autumn it had rained at last, and Lewis had been born, and she’d loved him with an intensity she thought she’d
never feel again, and some of the heartbreak had eased and she’d vowed that the rest of her life would be spent in making
him happy and secure, and that not having a father around would never be a handicap for him.

And, she felt, she’d achieved that, hadn’t she? Lewis had grown into a rounded, positive, fulfilled man: happy through school
and college, with lots of friends, great exam
results, a stupendous social life, a job he adored.

She’d done her best for him. She’d made up for her mistakes. There were no regrets.

No regrets? Zillah sighed and ran her flip-flops through little runnels of dust. Not quite true. There was still one. Only
one.

‘Zil? Zil, duck?’ Gwyneth was peering at her. ‘Wakeywakey, duck. You was miles away. Ida was just saying we ought to make
a rain incantation to Leo tonight come what may. What do you reckon?’

‘What? Oh, yes – why not?’ Zillah smiled, not caring one way or the other. ‘I don’t suppose the celestial gods and goddesses
will object too much. Plough Night, Leo’s Lightning, they’re both much of a muchness, aren’t they?’

‘Zil!’

Big Ida rocked with indignation at this blatant heresy.

Zillah chuckled. ‘Sorry, Ida. But honestly, Plough Night is always a bit of a damp squib, isn’t it? All that dreary stuff
about nature’s bounty and plentiful crops and things. Nothing exciting ever happens on Plough Night, does it?’

Amber was outside The Weasel and Bucket the minute Timmy unlocked the doors at 6 o’clock.

‘Crikey,’ he grinned at her. ‘Has living in Fiddlesticks turned you into a lush at last?’

‘You wish! No, I’m meeting someone,’ Amber said, walking into the warm, musty, yeasty pub. ‘Didn’t want to be late. And to
be honest, Gwyneth is taking this hosepipe ban thing so seriously that she’s decided we all have the same bath water. I didn’t
want to go in after Pike,’ she joked, ‘so I was given the five o’clock slot. I’ve been ready for ages.’

‘And very nice you look, too.’ Timmy made an extravagant bow. ‘Even more gorgeous than usual. This someone you’re meeting
– is it a date? Lewis?’

‘Thank you. No and no,’ Amber clambered onto one of
the high bar stools. ‘Although hopefully Lewis will be here sooner rather than later, too.’

As he poured her a large glass of house white, Amber told Timmy about the JB Roadshow, and about Freddo coming to give the
facilities a once-over before Harvest Moon.

‘Ah, yes, Zillah told me about that. Should be great. I like a good band. And it’ll bring the punters in here in droves.’
Timmy exchanged wine for money. ‘Plough Night’s OK, but because it’s more generally focused on the land rather than the heart,
it doesn’t generate quite so much excitement.’

‘So I gathered,’ Amber sipped her wine. ‘It sounds like a sort of school harvest festival without the veg.’

Timmy laughed. ‘Hmmm … that’s not too far off the mark. Mind you, we can’t ignore its importance – specially round here. We’re
still very agricultural: lots of working arable farms and nearly everyone has an allotment or at least a vegetable patch.
No, Plough Night is as important here now as it was hundreds of years back.’

Amber took another mouthful of wine. Plough Night truly didn’t seem to promise much by way of excitement. Not like St Bedric’s
or Cassiopeia’s or even the rumours she’d heard about the breakaway Andromeda-faction. Even Leo’s Lightning was supposed to
produce something spectacular – and as for Harvest Moon – well, if she had her way it would be the best thing Fiddlesticks
had ever seen.

No, she had to be honest, the only reason she was looking forward to Plough Night was because it meant she’d spend time with
Lewis.

What was that sad quotation? They’d done it at school. Something about love being everything in the life of a woman, but only
a minority interest in the life of a man?

Dear, oh, dear … She stared through the pinpricks in the darkly ivy-covered windows. Was she seriously in danger of turning
into one of those sad, love-sick, obsessive, needy women who wiped out every other aspect of
their lives, existing only for the moment when the object of their desires deigned to bestow a few minutes of their precious
time?

Was she hell?!

Well – OK, maybe she was edging in that direction, but she could do something about it, couldn’t she? She was still in control
of her faculties, her emotions, her life.

Timmy broke rudely into this deep introspection. ‘Er – is Zil on her way over, do you know? She’s due in at half-six and she
was really strange at lunchtime. Very flippant and giggly. Haven’t seen her like that for ages. I had the feeling she might
have something on her mind …’