Signs of Love: Stupid Cupid Page 8

  Savannah backs off. ‘Whatever.’ She’s taken off the huge black coat and is somehow making the emo vibe work. The tight black dress looks kind of cool and the dark lipstick is wickedly vampish under the disco lights. ‘Do you want a Coke or something? LJ’s made friends with the guy behind the bar. He can get anything you want.’

  ‘A Coke would be great.’ I want to distract her so I can text Will. ‘Can you get me one?’

  Music explodes from the stage. Sam’s hanging off the mic while his band rev up behind him.

  ‘It’s started!’ Savannah twitches like an excited cat. ‘I’d better get back to the others. Come with me.’

  I guess ‘the others’ are LJ and his gang.

  ‘In a minute,’ I promise. ‘I told Mum I’d phone – let her know we got here all right.’

  ‘OK.’ Savannah fights her way into the crush that’s massing around the stage. Her drink is slopping down her arm as she holds it above her head. ‘Don’t be long.’ I can hardly hear her over the pounding of Sam’s band. As soon as she’s gone, I slide over to the wall and text Will.

  Found something.

  I wait for a reply, heart racing as I stare at my phone.

  Nothing.

  I head for the foyer. Perhaps the signal’s too weak here.

  The foyer’s cool and quiet. I check my signal. It’s strong.

  Come on, Will!

  I can’t wait. I scroll through my contacts and dial his number.

  Engaged.

  What’s he doing on the phone? Perhaps there’s a chat-line where you get to insult Year Nines for ten pence a minute. I reckon Will would be willing to pay; he seems to enjoy it so much. I pace up and down till the bouncer on the door starts eyeing me suspiciously.

  Savannah bursts out through a door, surfing a guitar riff. ‘Sam’s band are great!’ she shouts.

  The bouncer glares at her. She’s talking in her loud-music voice. In the quiet of the foyer she sounds demented.

  ‘Sorry.’ She tones it down. ‘Wasn’t it sweet of Sam to dedicate a song to you?’

  ‘He did?’ I blink at her.

  ‘Yes.’ She glances round the glossy walls of the foyer. ‘What are you doing out here anyway?’

  ‘Phone.’ I point to my mobile, trying not to give anything away. As I do, it rings, lighting up with Will’s name.

  Savannah eyes me suspiciously. ‘What are you up to?’

  ‘Webzine business,’ I tell her vaguely.

  ‘Now?’

  I hit the answer button. ‘Hi, Will.’ I cover the mouthpiece. ‘Go back and watch the gig,’ I tell Savannah. ‘In case Sam does a song for you too.’

  Savannah’s eyes light up. ‘That would impress LJ.’ She races through the door, swallowed by the music, and I’m free to talk to Will.

  ‘Gemma?’ He’s yelling down the line at me. ‘Are you there? What’s happened?’

  ‘Hi, Will.’

  ‘So? What’s the story? What did you find?’ He’s firing questions, Nazi-style, as if I don’t want to tell him.

  I head for a corner, as far from the bouncers as I can get, and whisper into the mouthpiece. ‘I heard him say something about drugs.’

  ‘Drugs!’ Will sounds like I just told him he’d won the lottery and a lifetime’s supply of leather jackets.

  ‘I think he’s dealing out of the club.’ I glance furtively at the bouncer then look away before he thinks I’ve got a crush on him.

  ‘I’ll be there in ten minutes,’ Will says. ‘Meet me outside.’

  Ten minutes? Is he borrowing Cindy’s broomstick?

  I hang up and plunge back into the heaving gloom of the club.

  Explaining to Savannah that I have to go home is easier than I imagine. She’s so busy watching LJ I could tell her anything: that I’m having Mr Harris’s lovechild; that Treacle’s head exploded over dinner and Mr and Mrs Simpson want help scraping her brains off the wallpaper. Instead, I tell her Mum’s sick and needs me to look after Ben.

  She just nods and smiles. ‘OK.’

  ‘So I’ll see you Monday,’ I shout through the screeching solo which Alex is torturing from his guitar.

  ‘Monday, yes.’ Savannah says distractedly as she moves nearer to LJ. She’s been closing in on him since I started talking. You could toast sandwiches in the smouldering gap between them. I’m glad I’m leaving so I don’t have to watch them flirting with each other.

  Outside, it’s deliciously cold. I wander up and down the empty pavement, staying in the circle of light beaming down from the streetlamp. The wind’s fierce but it’s not raining. I can’t wait to share my discovery with Will. I check my watch, then check the sky for incoming broomsticks. As I do, a car pulls up a few metres away. Will slides out of the passenger door like a snake escaping from its tank. He slams the door shut and thumps the roof. The car speeds away. As it passes, I glimpse a middle-aged woman at the wheel.

  ‘Was that your mum?’ I ask Will as he strides toward me. It never occurred to me that Will had a mother. I’d assumed he’d sprung fully-formed and leather-jacketed from the head of Zeus, like that Greek god Mrs Dalton bangs on about. It’s sweet to think he’s got a mum; I picture her in an apron, serving Will a comforting bowl of soup.

  ‘None of your business!’

  My warm feeling chills as Will snarls at me.

  I shrink into my jacket. ‘I just wondered.’

  ‘I didn’t come here to share family secrets,’ he growls. ‘What did you find out?’

  ‘Wiggins is expecting a delivery of drugs.’

  ‘I heard that,’ Will snaps. ‘Give me the who-what-where-when-and-why.’ He reels off the five Ws like a seasoned reporter.

  I start from the very beginning. ‘I found his office and listened at the door.’ I glance back at the club, half nervous, half excited. ‘He was on the phone to someone.’

  ‘Did you get a name?’ Will pulls a notepad from his pocket and flips it open.

  I shake my head. ‘He just said the delivery was meant to be last night and he wanted the drugs.’

  Will scribbles something on his pad, talking as he writes. ‘Did he say which sort? Weed? Coke? Heroin?’

  I shake my head ‘I just heard drugs.’

  Will’s nodding. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘He sounded pretty desperate,’ I tell him. ‘He said “I’ve got customers in line and they’re not the sort of people who like to be kept waiting”.’

  Will slaps his pad shut. ‘Nice job.’

  I wait for the follow-up comment. The sharp remark that will cut me off at the knees. It doesn’t come.

  ‘We’ve really got something to go on now.’ Will’s running his hand though his hair. Nervous energy’s sparking from him like static. ‘I’ll get us tickets for next week’s gig. We can come back together and do some more digging.’

  Together! He’s really taking me seriously. I squash back my joy and focus on the story. ‘Shouldn’t we stake the place out?’ I ask. ‘That delivery might be tonight.’

  Will frowns. ‘Too dangerous.’ He shakes his head. ‘This could be big, but we need to tread carefully.’

  We take the same bus home. I’m kind of glad. Buses after dark aren’t my favourite thing.

  ‘Cindy’s dying to know what the story’s about,’ I tell him as we perch next to the luggage rack and watch the streetlamps flash by.

  ‘You didn’t tell her, did you?’ He slides his feet restlessly over the filthy floor.

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Is she as tough in class as she is in editorial meetings?’ I want to get a Year-Ten view of the Ice Queen.

  ‘A good editor needs to be tough.’

  I’m surprised to hear him defend her. I decide to shut up. A good bitching session takes two, and he’s clearly not playing. My phone bleeps. It’s a text from Treacle.

  GREAT NIGHT. JEFF’S PARENTS GREAT. JEFF SUPER-SWEET. THANX FOR SUPPORT. XXX

  I smile. When Treacle’s happy, I’m happy. Especiall
y when I’ve just busted a drug ring wide open too. My first story and I’ve hit the jackpot. My name is going to be famous once this reaches the presses. I slide into a daydream. An eager reporter from the local paper is doorstepping me.

  ‘When did you first discover Wiggins was dealing heroin?’ His notepad is open.

  Before I can answer, a man in a slick, grey suit pushes past and offers me his card. ‘Gemma Stone?’

  I nod.

  ‘Great story.’ He takes my hand and shakes it. ‘Our paper needs reporters like you. Young blood. In touch with the street.’

  The scene in my head cuts to a London news office. Monitors hum, keyboards rattle, reporters dart between cluttered cubicles.

  ‘Stone!’ The chief news editor calls me from his office. ‘Get in here.’

  I hurry in and sit down as my boss paces. ‘I just got the call,’ he tells me. ‘Your piece on Britain’s biggest drug cartel has been nominated for Top Story at the International News Awards.’ He stops and gazes at me in wonder. ‘I can’t believe you’re only fifteen. You’ll be the youngest award winner ever.’

  ‘If I win,’ I caution him.

  ‘You’ll win, Stone,’ he tells me. ‘You’ll win.’

  ‘Catch!’ Dad lobs the salt pot at me. It flies across the dining table and I catch it like a pro.

  It’s Sunday dinner and Dad’s trying to blow away the Monday morning blues that are just starting to settle over the house like a fog.

  ‘Philip Stone!’ Mum scolds Dad like he’s one of the kids. ‘What kind of example are you setting?’

  It’s too late. Ben’s a quick learner. He’s already snatched up the pepper pot and thrown it at Dad.

  Dad flings out a hand and catches it clumsily. Pepper puffs from the top, straight up his nose. His eyes goggle. His nose twitches and he explodes.

  The sneezing fit lasts a full five minutes. Dad’s nose is machine-gunning. It blasts him twice round the dining table.

  Ben drops to the floor, helpless with laughter, and rolls there howling while I hang off my chair, clutching my sides in a fit of giggles.

  Mum flaps after Dad, offering tissues and snatching ornaments from his path. ‘Are you OK, honey?’ she gasps each time he comes up for air.

  At last Dad staggers against a wall and collapses dramatically. ‘I’m dying,’ he splutters, before giving himself up to another gigantic sneeze.

  Ben crawls under the table and out the other side, then flops down beside Dad. ‘You’re the funniest Dad in the world.’

  Dad wraps an arm around Ben, eyes streaming. ‘Thanks, Pepper-Boy.’ He plants a kiss on Ben’s head then hauls himself and Ben up.

  We settle back down to dinner.

  ‘How’s school, Gem?’ Mum takes advantage of the lull to slide in her favourite question.

  ‘Fine.’ I know she wants more detail, but there isn’t enough time to explain the whole geopolitical situation at Green Park High and, without a firm grasp of the basics, she’d make no sense of current events in my educational universe.

  ‘How’s Treacle?’ Mum presses.

  ‘Fine.’ I’ll save the Jeff-parents-meeting exposé till I’ve got more time.

  ‘Savannah?’ Mum should be a quiz-show host. ‘She was looking a little peaky on Friday.’ She must have glimpsed Sav’s emo-transformation as we headed up the driveway.

  ‘She’s fine.’ I make a mental note to bring Mum up to speed on the various plot points in my life. But right now I want to hoover up my sausage and mash and finish Jessica Jupiter’s horoscopes. It’s deadline day tomorrow and, with the rest of the editorial team hogging keyboards, I can’t guarantee computer access at the webzine HQ.

  ‘Don’t you want pudding?’ Mum asks as I clatter my knife and fork together on my plate and push back my chair. ‘It’s cheesecake.’

  Cheesecake! I hesitate. Mum makes kick-ass cheesecake. ‘Can I have it later?’ I ask. ‘When I’ve finished my homework?’

  The H-word works wonders and Mum beams. ‘Of course, pet. I’ll save you some.’

  It’s not like me to turn down Mum’s cheesecake, but words are rattling round my head and I want to get them on to my hard disk before they escape.

  I head for my room and settle down on my beanbag with my battered old laptop.

  Libra

  I start with my own star sign. Since my exciting scoop at Sounds, dreams about my brilliant career have been filling my head. Perhaps, if I put them into my horoscope they might come true.

  Dear, level-headed Libra. A lucky break on the work front might have tipped the scales in your favour. After proving your true worth this week, you’ll be able to trade in your dull, dusty life for one that’s as star-filled and fabulous as mine. You lucky, lucky Star-ling.

  Once I’ve etched my future in stone – or at least tapped it into pixels – I move on to Marcus.

  I remember him moon-eyed on the bus, watching Sav, and wonder how he spent the rest of the evening. Probably wallflowering while Savannah flitted round LJ like a butterfly in a hothouse.

  Sagittarius

  I finally managed to find his birthday without pasting him all over my Facebook status.

  Take heart, Star-ling, all is not lost. Though it may seem hopeless, the apple of your eye is still on the tree. Stay close by and it may still drop into your lap. And if you want first bite, don’t do a Newton and worry about the gravity of the situation, sink your teeth in and enjoy the sweetness.

  Sam’s next. He deserves a mention. After all it was Sam who got me into the gig and backstage for my scoop.

  Capricorn

  Last week you outshone the stars. The most naturally gifted of all the signs, you’re like a rocket headed for the moon. Last week’s step will be a giant leap before you know it. Don’t forget to pack a flag. You’re going to need something to plant when you get there.

  I pick up my phone and scroll though my texts, rereading the sweet one from Sam, sent late Friday night.

  You OK?

  He’d asked Savannah for my number when he couldn’t find me after the gig.

  Sam’s such a nice guy. I add a line to his horoscope.

  Enjoy your success. You deserve it. You’re the most caring sign in the zodiac.

  The doorbell rings and I hear Mum chatting. Treacle’s voice drifts up from the hall. She’s come for our usual pre-Monday pep-talk. Mum will be giving her a light grilling, hoping to extract more info than she got from me at dinner. I wonder whether to rescue her but decide she can handle it. She’s like Mum’s other daughter and I want a few minutes extra to write Sav’s horoscope. It’s an easy one. I’ve decided to cut trying to be subtle. This time I don’t want her to misunderstand Jessica’s warning. And I definitely don’t want her quizzing me about Jessica again.

  Pisces

  Hey, fish-face! Prick up your gills and listen. For a guppy you have an awfully sweet tooth. But stop gorging yourself on imported cheesecake. You’ll make yourself sick. If you see a label marked USA, back away and look for something homegrown.

  I hear Treacle on the stairs. She’s clattering.

  ‘Your Mum asked me to bring these up.’ She pushes my door open with a foot. She’s carrying two plates with cheesecake. She passes me one and flumps on to my bed. She’s already forked in a mouthful by the time she starts speaking. It’s not pretty to watch but when you’re a best friend you have to take the rough with the smooth.

  ‘It wuz brulliunt,’ she tells me, through the chewed-up cake.

  I wait for her to swallow. ‘The dinner with Jeff’s Olds?’

  She nods and forks another lump of cheesecake from the slice. Before she can load it into her mouth, I slap my plate on to the desk and zip across the room.

  I land next to her and hold down her fork. ‘Give me the cake-free version.’

  ‘OK.’ She pushes her plate into my hands and leaps to her feet. ‘I arrive, right? And it’s all “Hello, Mrs Simpson. Hello, Mr Simpson. Can I take your coat?” That’s my coat, not theirs – they w
eren’t wearing coats. And Jeff’s hopping from one foot to another behind them, with this terrified look like they’re performing open-heart surgery on the cat.’

  ‘He’s got a cat?’

  ‘No.’ She waves away the question. ‘Anyway, we get the hellos done, then they ask if I want to sit down and I say, “what, here?” And I’m looking round the hall wondering if we’re going to sit on the stairs and chat, which of course is really stupid but I’m so nervous my brain’s not fully functioning, but Mrs S is lovely and suggests we use the sitting room and I’m expecting the third degree, but they just disappear into the kitchen and leave me and Jeff on our own. So then I get paranoid and wonder if they’ve gone to talk about me but Jeff says they’re cooking this big tea and I get more nervous in case I can’t eat or they’re roasting a giraffe or something equally gross and he says not to worry it’s just chicken.’

  I lean on a pillow and make myself comfortable, it seems like this is going to be a long story.

  Treacle gets up and starts pacing. ‘I’m just starting to unwind when Mr S – Trevor – comes in and he’s wearing an apron and he asks if I want juice and I say yes.’

  I take a mouthful of Treacle’s cheesecake. I’m clearly going to need sustenance. She’s in full flow.

  ‘So we drink juice and I’m feeling really relaxed now because the house is, like, totally normal with piles of newspapers and books like they’ve sort of tidied up but not gone mad. And then Mrs S comes out and perches on the arm of the sofa and starts talking about how pleased she is to meet me and how she hopes I like garlic because Trevor – Mr S – goes a bit nuts with it. And I say, “At least he’s not a vampire,” and Mrs S laughs.’ Treacle stops and stares at me. ‘She actually laughed, Gem, and then she said, “I’ve always preferred werewolves”. And I agreed with her because werewolves are much cooler than vampires. I mean vampires are so puny. They’re allergic to practically everything – sun, Bibles, crosses, garlic. It’s amazing any of them ever make a kill. I mean if a normal human was allergic to that much stuff they’d have to live in a bubble with the lights out.’

  I swallow another mouthful of cheesecake. ‘Did you share all this with Mrs S?’

  ‘Jane,’ Treacle corrects me. ‘I’m meant to call her Jane.’