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Chapter 2

a woman possessed by the idea of a dog…

After school the next day we get down to business, writing big, fat shopping lists and making plans. I am determined not to think about where the money came from and I’m trying to join in with the fun. I find a sheet of plain paper and a marker pen and draw a line down the middle. I write “Tiff” at the top of one column and “Carla”, that’s my mum’s name, at the top of the other. In Mum’s column I write the things she wants: 1) new perfume 2) some more diamond earrings 3) a pair of boots with shiny buckles 4) champagne. Under my name I write: 1) pencil case 2) new tops 3) a book and 4) a pet.

“Don’t even go there, Tiff,” says Mum, “There’s just no way, not ever, that I could put up with a pooping, piddling pet scatting about the house.”

“A pony?” I ask, hopefully. “A pony wouldn’t even come near the house.”

Mum raises her eyebrows and slurps her glass of wine. I can see that something is on her mind.

“My dad got me and Cass ponies when we moved to Sark…mine was called Mabel and…Oh, never mind, Tiff,” she sighs. “The answer’s no and that’s that. Can we not go on about it any more, please? You’re giving me a headache.”

And I know not to go on, or ask any more questions, because my mum never talks about her past. Except occasionally, when she’s had too much wine to drink and the words sort of slip out of her mouth. But once she realises what she’s doing she always stops herself and changes the subject, especially when the subject happens to be Sark, the tiny island her family moved to when she was little. All I know is that my mum ran away from Sark when she was seventeen and has never been back since. I’ve never been, full stop. And I’ve never even met or seen a photo of my dad because he ran off before I was born. And I don’t know her family, including my grandparents and my Auntie Cass.

“In the bright lights, babe, that’s where we belong.” Mum always says. So we never talk about anything old. In our life everything’s always shiny and new.

She takes a brush to my hair and tugs at my tangles.She takes another glug of wine. “Come on, cheer up,” she says, kissing me on the end of my nose. “Let’s have some fun shopping and then we can grab us one of our super-famous slap-up dinners. How would that be?”

“OK,” I say, “but no funny stuff, promise?”

“Promise,” she winks, drawing two big red lines of lipstick across her lips and smacking them together. “You know me, Tiff. It’s you and me,” she says.

“You and me, Mum,” I echo, switching off the TV.

After a bit of retail therapy, where my mum actually managed to keep her fingers to herself and pay for our treats with cash, she decides we need go to Miguel’s to have our hair and nails done. I really, really want to have my hair cut all short and choppy, but Mum insists I keep it long. She loves the way she can brush it and make it all smooth and shiny.

“But I want a proper hairstyle! I’m twelve, Mum; I’m not a little girl. And Chelsea’s having hers done!”

“I said no, Tiff, and that is the end of the haircut conversation.”

And, just like always, Mum gets her way and I have to go along with it.

“Cooooeeeee, Carla,” shrieks Bianca, my mum’s best friend, when we walk into Miguel’s place. She starts leaping up and down in the chair and waving her arms about like a wild thing. “Come and look over here!”

We go over to where she’s sipping coffee and having more highlights put in her ice-blonde hair. My mum and Bianca hug like mad things and jump up and down like they haven’t seen each other for at least a hundred years. Bianca grabs my cheeks and squeezes them hard in a friendly kind of a way.

“Ooh, you two are gonna be so jealous when I show you what I have in here,” she squeals, pointing at her bag. “Look what Harry got me. Can you believe it?”

I do look, and a little pink puppy nose peeps over the top of the bag, and a tiny ball of white fluff wags its tail. Bianca lifts ‘Queenie’ out of the bag and puts her on the floor, and everyone in Miguel’s – especially me – goes crazy for her until she does a little tiddle on Miguel’s gleaming white tiles. Then Miguel starts huffing about the place saying it’s a salon he’s running here, not a zoo.

Mum changes her mind about having our slap-up meal because we spent so long having our hair and nails done. But I don’t mind because when we’re on our way home she starts talking and I totally can’t believe what my ears are hearing.

“I just have to have one!” Mum’s wailing like a three-year-old. I really, really, really have to have one.”

It was only a few hours ago my mum totally refused to even consider the idea of having a pet. But now that her best friend has a puppy, suddenly everything has changed. She is so childish! But right now, I’m trying to think of the positives, and I’m totally fizzing inside with excitement. I don’t want to say anything at all that will make her change her mind because I know we’ll be getting our own puppy uber-quick-pronto. You see words like wait, patience and think just aren’t in her brain dictionary. She loves things to be fast, like fast cars and fast food.

“OK, so let’s go to the rescue place,” I suggest.

“Good idea,” she says, “for some people. But not for us, Tiff! The whole rescue-dog thing would take too long to sort out. I’ve made up my mind: I want a dog and I want it now.”

“Muuumm,” I say, worrying that she’s up to no good, “what are you planning?”

“Don’t panic, babe, even I wouldn’t take someone’s dog! And anyway, we don’t want a boring old biffer of a dog, do we? We want something new; something special.”

I try to argue that rescue-dogs need good homes, but as usual Mum gets her way. We have bags and bags of cash to splash so we head off to the place where Bianca got Queenie and hand over £800 for a cute little white fluff-a-fluff. I fall in love with her straightaway.

“Let’s call her Powder Puff,” I say, trying to think of a good name, “or Snowflake.”

“Good try, Tiff, but I really can’t see myself standing in the park every morning shouting out ‘Powder Puff, Powder Puff’, can you? And she’s really not a frosty little snowflake is she?”

I have a feeling it doesn’t really matter what I think in this situation. Mum goes to the fridge, throws me a Coke and pours herself a glass of her favourite white wine, Chardonnay.

“I’ve got it!” she shrieks. “She’s a Chardonnay from head to tail! Don’t you just love it, babe?”

And I suppose I do. So we get out my favourite hair-brush and give Chardonnay her first proper pamper session. Then we get busy on the internet ordering things that we think a puppy might need. We choose a shiny diamanté collar, a pink lead, some pink polka-dot dog bowls and a proper princess-bed with a special silk doggy duvet. We go crazy over dog clothes and order Chardonnay a tartan outfit and hat for rainy days, a pink party dress for celebration days and a little pink tracksuit for everyday park-wear.

Just when we’re about to order ourselves a takeaway, Mum’s mobile springs into life and blares out a show tune.

“Mikey-babe,” she says. Then she’s listening for a while and I notice that she’s nibbling her brand-new nails. “Right, OK, see you there then.”

She dumps Chardonnay on my lap. “Sorry, Tiff, I just have to go and meet Mikey for a bit. I’ll be back soon. You all right with Chardonnay?”

“Sure,” I say, my tummy rumbling. “See you later alligator.”

“In a while crocodile. And, babe,” she says, halfway out of the door, “I’ve been thinking that we deserve a holiday. Monte Carlo, Las Vegas, Hawaii, wherever you fancy.”

The amazing holiday we had last year flashes into my mind. We went to Barbados and stayed in this uber-cool hotel and pretended we were real princesses. We just had to click our fingers and we got whatever we wanted.

“Barbados again?” I say.

“Hm. I was thinking of somewhere new,” says Mum. “Let’s check out the brochures tomorrow. And, hey, why don’t you call Chelsea and get her to come round for a sleepover, to keep you company?”

“Brilliant idea, Mum,” I say. “Thanks.”

She comes over and kisses me on the top of my head.

“You have to look after your friends, Tiff, make them feel special.” She’s twiddling one of my blonde waves round and round her finger and I catch on her face that far-away look, that thinking-of-her-old-life look.

“The thing is, Tiff,” she continues, “you never know what’s going to happen in life. One day you might wake up to discover that your friends have gone, that they just aren’t there for you any more. So take my advice, babe, and treasure them while you can.”

It’s kind of weird for my mum to say stuff like that, and I’m sure I see a tiny tear escape from the corner of her eye. She wipes it away and heads for the door again. “You and me, babe,” she calls through a perfume haze.